4,L*.  J 

\s  /* 


. 


RURAL  RHYMES, 


BY 


ANNA    BOIES. 


AI    IITRODUCTION, 


KEV.  JOSEPH  E.   KING. 


He  is  the  FREEMAN  whom  the  TBUTH  makes  free. 

And  nil  ?ire  SLAVES  besides 

He  looks  abroad  into  the  varied  field 

Of  NATURE,  and  though  poor  perhaps,  compared 

With  thosa  whose  m-vnsiona  glitter  in  his  sight. 

Calls  the  delightful  SCENERY  all  his  own. 

His  are  the  mountains,  and  the  villeys  his, 

And  the  resplendent  rivers,  his  t'  enjoy 

With  a  propriety  that  none  can  feel, 

But  who,  with  filial  confidence  inspired. 

Can  lift  to  HEAVEN  an  unpresumptuous  eye. 

And  smiling  say,  "My  FATHER  MADE  THEM  ALL  !" 

COWPER. 


SARATOGA   SPRINGS: 

STEAM    PEE8SES    OF    G.     M.     DA  VI  SON. 
1859. 


Entered,  according  to  act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  one  thousand  eight  hundred  and 
fifty-eight, 

BY  LURA  ANNA  BOIES, 

in  the  Clerk's  office  of  the  U.  S.  District  Court  of  the  Northern  District  of  New-York. 


TO 


HON.    WM.    HAY, 


OF 


SARATOGA    SPRING  S 


CDU    Boofc 


IS  RESPECTFULLY  INSCRIBED  BY  THE 


AUTHORESS. 


M191809 


INTRODUCTION. 


THE  rule  of  Architecture  requiring  a  portico  to  correspond 
in  style  arid  proportions  to  the  edifice  to  which  it  is  both 
an  entrance  and  an  adornment,  ought,  perhaps,  to  apply  to 
Introductions.  It  had  been  well,  therefore,  for  the  writer, 
had  he  duly  pondered  the  delicacy  of  his  task,  before  permit 
ting  a  Teacher's  pride  and  joy  in  a  well-beloved  pupil,  to 
betray  him  into  a  promise  of  writing  an  introduction  to  this 
volume  of  Poems.  As,  however,  the  rudes-t  lattice-work 
has,  at  times,  sufficed  for  a  support  to  the  clinging  tendrils  of  a 
flowering  vine,  grown  up  by  the  hospitable  door  of  some  fair 
rural  cottage,  while  itself  has  been  lost  to  sight  in  the  luxu 
riant  verdure  of  o'er-arching  leaves;  so  may  this  plain  portal 
to  the  festal  bower  of  a  fair  daughter  of  the  Muses  deserve 
well  of  the  entering  guests,  whom  it  shall  introduce  by  the 
directest  route,  to  a  rare  repast. 

"God  made  the  country — man,  the  town."  Afar  from  the 
din  and  dust  of  the  town,  in  a  humble  farm-house  on  the  bank 


VI 


INTRODUCTION. 


of  the  noble  Hudson,  overlooking  the  site  of  old  Fort  Ed 
ward,  the  gentle  spirit  of  LURA  A.  BOIES  first  saw  the  light. 
In  this  rural  seclusion,  from  which  she  has  been  lured  only 
far  enough  away,  to  lave  her  thirsting  soul  in  the  nearest 
fountain  of  Learning;  here,  under  the  tuition  of  holy  Nature, 
with  a  few  choice  books  and  a  few  appreciative  friends,  has 
her  young  life  glided  sweetly  on,  to  the  music  of  her  pure 
and  loving  thoughts,  until  all  unconscious  of  the  passing 
years,  lo  !  she  has  reached  the  charmed  threshold  of  early 
womanhood;  and — stranger  still — those  uttered  thoughts 
have  grown  to  be  a  volume  of  poems!  while  her  friends 
come  around  her,  to  demand  their  publication. 

That,  in  brief,  is  the  story  of  how  this  book  came  to  be. 

"God  made  the  country."  Therefore  it  is  that  the  poets, 
whose  hearts,  like  the  olden  Bards,  are  fresh  and  simple,  and 
susceptible  to  all  pure  inspirations,  are  they  whose  lives  have 
been  nearest  to  Nature.  If,  in  this  volume,  there  shall  be 
less  of  Art  than  the  professional  critic  may  demand,  there 
will,  at  least,  be  no  bookish  affectations.  The  ingenuous 
reader  will  not  be  tantalized  with  a  display  of  verbal  pyro 
technics,  brilliant,  but  cold  and  cheerless;  neither  will  any 
dramatic  spasms  or  hysterical  extravagances  tempt  the 
vitiated  appetite  of  the  worn  and  wicked  worldling. 

The  transcendentalist  will  search  in  vain,  through  all  the 
lines  of  our  rural  Poet,  for  that  mysticism  in  which  he  de 
lights  to  lose  himself.  Her  men  and  women  are  all  human, 
with  real  forms  and  dimensions,  with  beating  hearts  that  can 
ache  and  be  glad ;  and  whose  tears  are  moist.  The  children 


L 


INTRODUCTION. 


of  her  verse  are  not  starched  into  manikins  or  perched  upon 
stilts,  but  are  free-limbed  boys  and  girls,  that,  at  times,  can 
prattle  and  romp ;  and,  again  in  their  moods,  make  us  feel 
that  "childhood  is  a  holy  thing,"  and  nestling  in  our  bosoms 
can  lead  us  whither  they  will. 

Every  true  heart  will  recognize  in  the  healthful  earnest 
ness,  the  home-like  tenderness  and  the  sincere  unselfishness 
of  these  poems,  a  most  loving  evangel  to  inspire  pure  and 
elevated  thoughts,  and  prompt  to  noble  and  generous  actions. 
It  is  an  unpretending  feast,  to  which  the  reader  is  bidden. 
Wheaten  cakes,  browned  by  the  honest  kitchen  fire-place, 
with  ripe  and  juicy  berries  from  the  meadow,  and  cool  spring 
water,  bubbling  fresh  and  pure  from  the  hillside.     The  table 
is  a  patch  of  greensward,  sheltered   by  a  stately   elm,  on 
whose  rugged  trunk  and  spreading  branches  a  wild  grape 
has  hung  its  verdant  festoons,  to  soften  the  noontide  rays, 
and  to  invite  the  summer-birds  to  linger  with  their  happy 
songs,  arid  build  their  nests.     A  few  wild  flowers,  still  wet 
with  morning  dew,  alone  adorn  the  rural  table.     Well,  let 
the  feast  begin  !  Unostentatious  as  it  is,  many  a  weary  heart 
shall  rise  up  from  the  repast,  refreshed,  and  go  out  from  the 
sheltering  elm  with  blessings  upon  the  gentle  giver.     Such 
great-souled  noblemen  of  Nature,  as  Bryant  and  Irving,  shall 
feel  their  old  age  greener  for  a  whole  year,  if  they  shall 
chance  to  sit,  an  hour,  at  this  humble  festive  board.     Here, 
mayhap,  some  Numa  of  state  shall,  in  the  interval  of  his 
heavy  cares,    find  an  "Egeria  in  the   woods"  which  shall 
smooth  the  wrinkles  from  his  brow,  and  inspire  him  to  be  a 


Vlll  INTRODUCTION. 

' 

stronger  and  a  better  man.    And  other  vexed  dignitaries  may 
recognize  in  these  sweet  songs  a  tone  kindred  to  that  of 

"  the  minstrel  shepherd's  lyre 

That  exorcised  Saul's  ennui." 

The  shrinking  Poet,  like  a  timid  fawn,  not  without  many 
misgivings,  trusts  herself  beyond  the  protecting  obscurity  of 
her  native  retreats.  Let  the  presence  of  her  friends  reassure 
her.  The  success  of  her  modest  volume  is  not  left  entirely 
to  the  caprice  of  strangers.  This  first  edition  will  be  well 
nigh  absorbed  by  the  circle  of  private  friends  whom  her 
school-girl  rhymes,  in  the  Institute  chapel,  and  an  occasional 
lyric  in  the  village  papers,  near  her  home,  had  attracted  ; 
and  who,  by  right  of  that  friendship,  will  eagerly  welcome 
this  volume,  and  keep  it  as  a  precious  souvenir,  for  them 
selves  and  their  children. 

May  a  kind  Providence  preserve  the  delicately  wrought 
tabernacle — alas  !  too  frail — of  this  gifted  daughter  of  Poesy, 
that  she  who  has  sung  so  well,  may  long  live  to  wake  the 
echoes  of  this  Muse-haunted  valley,  with  her  divinely  at 
tuned  harp. 

K. 
FORT  EDWARD  INSTITUTE,   N.  Y.  ) 

December,  1858.  S 


PROOF-READER'S  POSTSCRIPT. 


THE  contents  of  Professor  KING'S  preceding  introduction 
are,  in  consequence  of  its  late  receipt  at  the  printing-office, 
altogether  unknown  to  Miss  BOIES. 

That  remark — but  for  a  different  and  obvious  reason — ap 
plies  also  to  an  ensuing  tribute  of  womanly  respect,  and  sist 
erly  affection  ;  a  concise — because  condensed — poem,  which 
the  proof-reader  having  casually  perused  in  manuscript,  and 
purposely  obtained,  publishes  here  on  his  own  authority  alone. 
He  is,  however,  in  no  wise  displeased  with  that  thus  assumed 
responsibility. 

The  authoress,  whose  literary  nom  de  guerre  will  be  readily 
recognized,  was  an  intimate  companion  and  competing  class 
mate  of  Miss  BOIES,  in  a  collegiate  Institute,  and  has  there 
fore,  with  sufficient  knowledge  of  her  subject — a  grateful 
theme — familiarly,  yet  delicately,  addressed  the  following 
appropriate  and  sympathetic 

"LINES   TO   LURA. 

LOVED  LURA  !     E'en  the  very  name 

Hath  music  in  its  tone  : 
Its  soft  and  gentle  cadence  bears 

A  beauty  all  its  own. 


PROOF-READER'S  POSTSCRIPT. 

Already,  Fame  hath  twined  her  wreath 

Around  thy  brow  so  fair, 
And  every  coming  year  shall  add, 

Fresh  leaves  to  cluster  there. 

And  Time  shall  brine  rich  offerings 

To  lay  upon  thy  shrine  ; 
For  ever  hath  the  world  bowed  down 

Before  such  gifts  as  thine. 

Thine  is  the  power  to  touch,  with  skill, 
The  chords  of  every  heart, — 

To  weave  a  spell  around  the  soul, 
With  more  than  magic  art. 

To  bring  the  finer  feelings  forth, 

To  thee  the  power  is  given ; 
To  raise  the  soul  above  this  earth, 

And  fix  the  thoughts  on  Heaven. 

Then  warble  on,  fair  poetess, — 

Inspired  with  sacred  fire, — 
Till  thou  shalt  strike  a  chord  above, 

Upon  thy  golden  lyre. 


CARRIE  MAY. 


Saratoga  Springs. 


CONTENTS. 


TITLE,    OR    FIRST    LINE,     OF    POEM. 

Page. 

JANE  McCREA,         .                                 17 

The  Sequel, 28 

Little  Children 35 

Earnest, 40 

Fireside  Angels, 44 

Unwritten  Poetry, 46 

The  Rain, 49 

The  Blind  Bard  of  England,         ......  52 

The  Spirit  of  Song, 57 

Who  are  the  Blest  1 60 

An  Autumn  Reverie, 62 

Death, 64 

Rural  Life, 65 

Water, 69 

The  Sabbath 72 

The  Dying  Infant, 73 

A  Skeleton  in  the  National  House, 74 

The  Cholera, 79 

Little  Hattie,            83 

Peace,  Be  still,              *  86 


CONTENTS. 


Page. 

The  Bible, 87 

My  little  Namesake,             ....  89 

Our  Country,             ....  91 

Gone  up  Higher, 92 

The  Spirit, 97 

Who  would  not  die  to  live  again  1 98 

The  Dream,               99 

To  the  Stars, 101 

Our  Angel, 103 

Earth's  Triumph-Hours, 105 

The  Dead  Child, 112 

The  Beautiful, 114 

Twilight  Musings,             ........  115 

The  Divorced  Wife, 116 

The  Dead  Mother,             119 

Child  of  Sunshine, 121 

Gleanings  from  the  Hours, 122 

The  Birds,             127 

Origin  of  the  Dew-Drops,         .......  128 

Pictures, 130 

Angel  Charlie, 132 

Song  to  a  Bird,             133 

To-Day,             134 

Beautiful  to  die, 136 

Lines  to  an  Invalid  Sister, 137 

Silent  Cities, 138 

Lines  to  J  *  *  *  *,            142 

United, 144 

Sea-Foam, 146 

Our  Band,             .                 147 

It  is  Nothing  to  Me, 148 

— 


CONTENTS. 


Page. 

Lights  and  Shades  of  Child-Life, 150 

Baby  Helen, 156 

Life, 157 

Love, 158 

Epigram, 158 

Friendship,       .  159 

Sonnet — Spring  Flowers, 160 

To  my  Father, 161 

The  Law  of  Maine, 163 

One  Glass, 165 

The  Drunkard's  Wife, 167 

Temperance  Stanzas, 170 

"We  must  fight  the  battle  over,  172 

The  Temperance  Jubilee, 173 

"  Half  a  Hundred  Years  Ago," 175     \ 

Independence,  (July   3d,  1858,) 182 

To  my  Mother, 186 

The  Home  of  Washington, 188 


JANE    M'CKEA. 


i. 

'T  WAS  in  the  gorgeous  summer  time, 
The  vesper  bells,  with  mellow  chime, 

Kang  out  the  golden  day. 
Along  the  distant  mountain's  hight, 
And  o'er  the  Hudson,  flashing  bright, 
In  purple  floods  of  dazzling  light, 

The  sunset  glory  lay ; 
The  crimson  of  the  western  fires 
Glowed  redly  on  Fort  Edward's  spires, 

And  deeper  splendors  burned, 
Till  earth,  with  all  her  lakes  and  rills, 
Her  waving  woods  and  towering  hills, 

To  burnished  gold  was  turned. 

ii. 

I  had  been  listening  to  the  chimes, 
And  thinking  of  the  stirring  times, 
When  hill  and  lonely  glen, 


JANE  M'CREA. 


Woke  to  the  thunder  tones  of  yore, 

The  sounds  that  rolled  from  shore  to  shore, 

The  deep-mouthed  cannon's  sullen  roar, 

The  tramp  of  mail-clad  men ; 
I  had  been  thinking  of  the  days, 
When  the  fierce  battle's  lurid  blaze, 

Hung  like  a  fiery  cloud, 
O'er  rock  and  river,  wood  and  dell, 
Where  now  the  radiant  sunset  fell, 

And  I  had  left  the  crowd, 
And  sought,  with  hushed  and  reverent  tread, 
That  pleasant  city  of  the  dead, 

Where  the  wild  wind  harps  play, 
And  pine  trees  wave  and  willows  weep, 
Above  her  in  her  dreamless  sleep, 

The  hapless  Jane  M'Crea. 

in. 

Silent,  as  if  on  holy  ground, 
I  neared  that  angel-guarded  mound, 

Where  white  wings  viewless  wave ; 
An  aged  man,  with  hoary  hair, 
And  rude  scars  on  his  forehead  bare, 
Was  kneeling  in  the  sunset  there, 

Upon  the  maiden's  grave. 
Was  it  some  risen  chief  I  saw, 
That  o'er  me  came  that  breathless  awe  ? 

Was  it  some  warrior  bold  ? 
Whose  hand  had  grasped  the  ringing  steel, 
Whose  soul  had  thrilled  to  freedom's  peal, 

In  the  wild  strife  of  old  ? 


JANE  M'CREA. 


19 


IV. 

With  sudden  tears  mine  eyes  grew  dim, 
Nearer  I  drew  and  questioned  him 

Of  all  the  storied  past ; 
Of  the  fierce  days  when  roused  our  sires 

To  the  shrill  trumpet's  blast, 
And  the  red  light  of  battle  fires 

Upon  our  free  hills  lay ; 
I  asked  him  of  that  green  arcade, 
Where  gleamed  the  savage  chieftain's  blade, 
I  asked  of  her,  the  Scottish  maid, 

The  fated  Jane  M'Crea ! 

v. 

Then  did  the  veteran  warrior  speak, 
And  down  his  pale  and  furrowed  cheek 

The  hot  tears  glistening  ran ; 
Then  with  the  old  fire  flashed  his  eye, 
His  trembling  tones  rose  clear  and  high, 

And  thus  his  tale  began. 

PART  I. 


The  booming  guns  of  Lexington 
Had  roused  the  sire  and  gallant  son, 
And  louder  than  the  trumpet's  clang 
The  notes  of  wild  alarum  rang, 
The  dawning  light  of  Freedom's  star, 
Shone  dimly  in  the  skies  afar, 


JANE  M'CREA. 


Where  veiled  in  the  black  night  of  war 

The  sun  of  Peace  went  down. 
And  by  that  faint  and  flickering  glow, 
The  brave  of  heart.,  and  broad  of  brow, 
Had  boldly  sworn  they  would  not  bow 
To  England's  regal  crown. 

ir. 
A  thrill  went  through  Columbia's  soul, 

An  alien  sound  went  o'er  the  sea, 
Majestic  as  an  anthem's  roll, 

The  DECLARATION  of  the  free ! 
Earth's  startled  millions  wondering  heard, 
Britannia,  to  her  proud  heart  stirred, 
Hurled  back  the  bold  defiant  word, 
And  drew,  in  wrath,  her  flaming  sword, 
Fiercely  the  hostile  nations  met, 
And  yonder  sun  in  darkness  set, 

On  many  a  fatal  day ; 
In  scenes  of  blood  and  carnage  dire, 
'Mid  hissing  balls  the  gray  haired  sire 
Fought  with  the  youthful  warrior's  fire 

In  many  a  deadly  fray ; 
Still  rose  the  red  War's  fiery  form, 
Still  raged  the  furious  battle's  storm^ 

When  Burgoyne's  haughty  hosts, 
Breaking  the  waves  with  mighty  sweep, 
Came  o'er  the  waters  blue  and  deep, 

And  landed  on  our  coasts. 


JANE  M'CREA. 


21 


in. 

Clad  in  the  battle's  bright  array, 
With  waving  plumes  and  pennons  gay, 

And  flaming  banners  spread, 
And  arms  that  in  the  sunlight  glanced, 
Forward  the  British  ranks  advanced 

With  slow  and  measured  tread ; 
Then  rose  a  swift  and  rushing  sound, 
That  woke  the  hills  and  shook  the  ground. 

Then  freemen  fought  and  fell. 
Then  redder  gushed  the  crimson  flood, 
Then  was  our  land  baptized  in  blood — 
Of  all  the  strife  that  followed  then, 
That  thrilled  the  hearts  of  mighty  men, 

Ah  me !  I  may  not  tell ! 


The  spirit  of  thajl^varlike  age 
its  fire  •^fhin  me  rage, 

,ves,  my  old  heart  swells, 
,  the  evening  bells 
hg  out  the  dying  day. 

the  sound  of  martial  strains, 
hear  the  war-horse  neigh ; 
the  smoke  of  battle  plains, 
swift  blood  courses  through  my  veins^ 
I  plunge  into  the  fray. 
I  feel  the  scorching,  burning  blaze, 
in  those  stirring  days, 
of  Jane  M'Crea ! 


t"      ^ 


22 


JANE  M'CREA. 


PART  II. 


'T  was  morning. — Kich  and  radiant  dyes 
Flamed  in  the  gorgeous  orient  skies : 
Draped  in  the  purple  of  his  throne 
The  royal  sun  resplendent  shone. 
The  broad,  blue  Hudson  blazing  bright, 
Glowed  like  a  line  of  liquid  light, 
A  wave  of  glory  rippled  o'er 
The  hills  along  the  eastern  shore, 
And  waving  wood  and  fortress  gray, 
Blushing  in  rosy  splendor  lay, 
Kissed  by  the  red  lips  of  the  day, 
And  glittering  spear  and  lances'  gleam 
Flashed  back  again  the  rising  beam. 

ii. 

On  the  broad  lands  beyond  the  wood, 

Now  bright  with  harvest  sheaves, 
The  solid  lines  of  Albion  stood 

Thick  as  the  forest  leaves ; 
Hot  haste  and  consternation  then, 
Spread  through  the  ranks  of  our  brave  men, 
A  clear  blast  rang  throughout  the  glen, 

Louder  than  hunter's  horn, 
And  the  quick  tramp  of  hurrying  feet, 
The  drum's  deep  bass  that  rapid  beat, 
The  gathering  din  of  swift  retreat, 

Hose  on  the  summer  morn. 


JANE  M'CREA. 


in. 

From  many  a  lowly  woodland  home 
Went  up  the  cry  "  The  foe !  they  come !" 
And  warm  young  hearts  grew  faint  with  fear, 
And  little  children  clustered  near, 

And  blushing  cheeks  grew  pale ; 
And  many  a  form  with  noiseless  glide 
Stole  to  the  gallant  warrior's  side, 
And  fluttering  garments,  white  and  fair, 
Were  blent,  in  strange  confusion  there, 

With  coats  of  burnished  mail. 

IV. 

Aside,  that  morn,  from  all  the  crowd, 

In  earnest  thought  her  young  head  bowed, 

The  Scottish  maiden  stood, 
With  downcast  face  and  lips  apart, 
A  new  joy  thrilling  in  her  heart, 
That  gave  her  cheek  a  warmer  glow, 
And  brought  unto  its  stainless  snow 

The  quick  o'ermantling  blood. 
Thus  stood  she  bound  as  by  a  spell, 

Oh,  in  that  hour  how  wondrous  fair ! 
Around  her  like  a  glory  fell, 

The  rich  veil  of  her  raven  hair, 
The  fearless  spirit  throbbing  high 
Lit  up  her  clear,  calm  hazel  eye, 
And  lent  the  face  bowed  meekly  there, 

A  beauty  such  as  angels  wear. 


24 


JANE  M'CREA. 


v. 

Oh,  human  love !  what  strength  divine, 
What  strange  mysterious  power  is  thine ; 
It  was  thy  light  that  inward  shone 
And  bound  her  in  its  radiant  zone ; 
It  was  thy  low,  melodious  lay 
That  charmed  her  soul  from  earth  away, 
Till  mindless  of  the  outward  din 
She  only  heard  the  voice  within, 
And  listened  to  the  silver  tone, 
That  whispered  of  the  chosen  one 
To  whom  her  plighted  troth  was  given, 
Who  filled  her  deepest  heart  with  heaven ! 
By  thee,  a  willing  captive  led, 
The  maiden  knew  no  secret  dread, 

Nor  felt  a  boding  fear ; 
Nor  heard  the  Indian's  stealthy  tread, 

Nor  saw  the  danger  near. 


VI. 

A  sudden  shriek,  a  piercing  cry, 
That  seemed  to  rend  the  bending  sky, 
Went  up  that  morn  so  shrill  and  high, 
It  made  the  sternest  soldier  start, 

And  chilled  and  froze  the  circling  blood, 
And  sent  it  curdling  to  his  heart, 

That  still  with  terror  stood ; 
Then  rose  a  wild  demoniac  yell, 
A  sound  our  brave  men  knew  too  well ! 


JANE  M'CREA. 


VII. 

Each  soul  had  felt  the  sickening  fear, 
Each  hand  had  grasped  the  gleaming  spear, 
When  on  the  air,  distinct  and  clear, 
The  tramp  of  falling  hoof  drew  near, 
And  with  thin  nostrils  spreading  wide, 
The  ringing  spur  plunged  in  his  side, 
With  headlong  fury  rushing  fast, 
A  foaming  courser  darted  past. 
Ha !  't  was  the  chieftain  held  the  rein 
And  goaded  on  the  steed  amain, 
And  one^  a  gentle  girl,  was  there, 
With  hazel  eye  and  flowing  hair  $ 
Grasped  in  his  sinewy  arm,  and  pressed 
Rudely  upon  his  brawny  chest, 

The  frail  form  helpless  lay. 
Alas  for  thee !  thou  captured  maid, 
Oh  that  some  hand  thy  doom  had  stayed, 

Thou  fated  Jane  M'Crea ! 

VIII. 

A  voice  went  up  from  mighty  men, 

A  loud  and  stirring  cry, 
And  the  bold  warrior  shouted  then, 

"Mount !  to  the  rescue  fly !" 
They  rose,  a  brave  and  gallant  few, 
And  o'er  the  ground  their  swift  steeds  flew, 

Winged  with  the  lightning's  speed ; 
Till  in  that  green  and  shady  dell, 
Where  the  clear  waters  sparkling  well, 


26 


JANE  M'CREA. 


Where  towers  the  tall  and  stately  pine, 
And  the  light  falls  with  softer  shine, 
The  savage  gave  a  fiercer  yell, 

And  reined  his  panting  steed. 
Forth  from  the  leafy  woodland  shades, 

Leaped  many  a  painted  warrior's  form, 
And  brightly  glanced  their  murderous  blades, 

And  wildly  rose  the  battle's  storm. 
Hot  balls  hissed  through  the  summer  sheen, 

And  haughty  plumes  and  crests  bent  low, 
Then  darker  grew  the  fearful  scene, 

And  waves  of  blood  surged  to  and  fro. 
Before  the  shower  of  fiery  hail, 
The  chieftain  saw  his  numbers  fail, 
With  ire  his  swarthy  cheek  grew  pale, 
And  turning  from  the  fell  strife  there, 

He  stood  by  her,  the  Scottish  maid. 
He  seized  her  long  and  flowing  hair, 

And  o'er  her  gleamed  his  naked  blade ; 
And  reeking  with  the  tide  of  life, 
Back  flashed  the  long  and  glittering  knife ; 
A  fiendish  sneer  upon  his  lip, 

A  strange  wild  triumph  in  his  eye, 
The  chieftain  saw  the  red  blood  drip, 

And  held  the  ghastly  trophy  high ; 
Then  round  him  drew  his  blanket-plaid, 
And  plunged  into  the  forest  shade. 

IX. 

The  strong,  stern  man — the  warrior  true — 
Felt  in  his  eye  the  gathering  dew, 


JANE  M'CREA.  27 


When  with  hushed  tread  he  nearer  drew, 

To  the  still  form  beneath  the  pine — 
The  maiden  on  the  dewy  green ; 

For  ne'er  did  morning  sunlight  shine 
Upon  a  stranger,  sadder  scene. 
The  warm  bright  life-tide's  crimson  flow, 
Dyed  deep  her  graceful  garments'  snow, 
And  mingled  with  the  waters  clear, 
That  in  the  glad  light  sparkled  near. 

The  heart  that  thrill'd  to  love  before, 
To  love's  soft  strain  would  thrill  no  more ; 
The  light  of  her  young  life  had  fled, 
Too  well  they  knew  that  she  was  dead. 
Yet  better  far,  thus  to  have  died, 
Than  to  have  been  a  tory's  bride. 

Now  oft  beside  that  cooling  spring, 
The  little  children  shout  and  sing, 

And  in  that  sylvan  dell, 
Full  many  a  form  of  maiden  grace, 
Treads  lightly  o'er  the  hallowed  place, 

Where  she,  the  fated,  fell. 

On  Saratoga's  battle  plains, 

Where  low  the  British  standard  lay, 

The  murdered  maiden's  gory  stains, 
In  British  blood  were  washed  away. 

The  glory  of  that  triumph  day 
Jjp  Avenged  the  death  of  Jane  M'Crea. 


28 


JANE  M'CEEA. 


The  old  man  paused  ;  the  trembling  tones 
That  woke  the  bright  unconscious  tear, 
Sad  as  the  low  wind's  music  moans, 

Died  on  my  rapt  and  listening  ear. 
Then  in  that  solemn  evening  time, 
When  vesper  bells  had  ceased  to  chime, 

And  all  the  quiet  air 
Was  hushed,  as  if  this  world  of  ours 
Had  closer  clasped  her  trees  and  fiWers, 
And  whispered  peace  through  all  her  bowers. 

And  bowed  her  heart  in  prayer ; 
A  hush  upon  my  reverent  soul, 
An  awe  that  o'er  my  being  stole, 

Mournful  I  turned  away, 
And  left  the  worn  old  soldier  there, 
His  white  locks  streaming  in  the  air. 
The  dew  upon  his  forehead  bare, 
And  left  the  consecrated  ground, 
Where  holy  memories  cluster  round, 
The  grave  of  Jane  M'Crea. 


THE    SEQUEL. 

He  fell,  the  bold  hero !  low  lay  the  proud  form 
That  braved  the  red  wrath  of  the  battle's  wild  storm, 
When  dark  hung  the  cloud  of  the  furious  fray 
O'er  the  fell  bights  of  Bemis,  they  bore  him  away. 


JJVa 


THE    SEQUEL. 


He  spoke,  and  his  heart  for  a  moment  beat  high, 
The  fire  of  his  spirit  flashed  forth  from  his  eye, 
"  When  the  terrible  voice  of  the  conflict  is  still, 
Lay  me  down  in  the  sunset  to  rest  on  the  hill."* 

They  saw  the  fierce  gleam  of  the  "battle  light  fade, 
And  faint  grew  the  roar  of  the  fell  cannonade, 
When  the  wing  of  the  night  fluttered  down  o'er  the 

west, 
They  laid  the  brave  warrior  away  to  his  rest. 

Proud  day,  Columbia,  for  thee, 

When  upward  soared  thine  eagle  FREE  ! 

Proud  day,  when  from  the  hills  of  strife 

The  sullen  war-cloud  rolled  away, 
And  Triumph  waved  her  peaceful  wing 

Above  the  fell  and  fatal  fray. 
Glad  millions  shouted  then  "TIS  DONE  !" 
And  high  hearts  hailed  the  victory  won, 

And  clear  the  exulting  strain, 
In  one  loud  peal  of  lofty  song, 

Went  o'er  the  heaving  main. 


*  "  He  (General  Frazer)  was  asked  if  he  had  any  request  to  make, 
to  which  he  replied,  that  if  General  BurgO3me  would  permit  it,  he 
should  like  to  be  buried  at  6  o'clock  in  the  evening,  on  the  top  of  a 
mountain, f  in  a  redout  which  had  been  built  there. "^ — Baroness  de 
Reidesel's  Narrative. 

t  Bemia  Rights. 

t  "  Mr.  Brudenell,  (the  chaplain  who  officiated  at  the  funeral  services,)  afterwards  stated 
that  when  the  dying  hero  announced  his  desire  to  be  buried  in  the  redout,  his  eye,  which 
had  been  dim,  was  momentarily  lighted  up  with  a  falcon-like  flashing,  contrasting  pain 
fully  with  the  countenance  of  spectral  paleness.  So  strong  in  death,  was  the  dominant 
passion — glory  or  fume."— Extract  from  an  unpublished  narrative. 


30 


JANE  M'CREA. 


Oh,  there  was  grief  and  anguish  then 
In  the  bowed  hearts  of  Albion's  men, 
And  dark  as  night  the  wing  of  woe. 
Brooded  above  the  vanquished  foe ! 
Not  as  when  girded  for  the  strife, 
In  the  full  flush  of  daring  life, 

With  glowing  hopes  all  vain. 
Through  the  dim  silence,  hushed  and  still, 
At  sunset  up  the  chosen  hill, 

Wound  the  slow  funeral  train. 
Oh,  not  as  marshaled  for  the  field, 
With  burnished  lance  and  gleaming  shield, 

And  scarlet  banners  flame, 
That  stricken  band  of  warriors  brave 

To  the  lone  -burial  came  ; 
Nor  yet,  with  death-flag's  ebon  wave 

And  sound  of  muffled  drum, 
As  conquering  heroes  to  the  grave 

Of  martial  glory  come. 
No  plaintive  dirge  rose  on  the  air, 
No  sable  plumes  drooped  darkly  there, 
But  with  hushed  hearts  and  mournful  tread, 
They  bore  away  their  gallant  dead. 

More  awful  than  the  battle's  roll 
The  gloom  that  bowed  each  haughty  soul, 
And  wilder  was  the  storm  within 
Than  the  fierce  conflict's  raging  din, 

Where  he,  the  hero,  fell, 
'Mid  clash  of  arms  and  ring  of  steel, 


THE    SEQUEL. 


31 


And  brazen  trumpet's  clarion  pealy 
And  noise  of  bursting  shell. 

Hark !  from  the  hills  a  sudden  sound 
Trembles  along  the  startled  ground,. 

And  slowly  dies  away — 
'T  is  from  the  bosom  of  the  free, 
The  mighty  heart  of  victory 
Throbs  in  that  solemn,  mourning  gun. 
And  thus  to  Albion's  fallen  son 

The  brave  their  tribute  pay.* 

'T  is  beautiful,  when  those  who  met 
In  dire  and  dreadful  strife,  forget 

Their  hatred,  dark  and  deep ; 
And  when  the  tide  of  life  swells  high, 
Lay  all  their  full  rejoicing  by, 

To  weep  with  those  who  weep ! 

Oh,  grateful  in  that  hour  of  woe 

To  those  whose  light  had  fled, 
The  homage  of  the  conquering  foe, 

To  him  their  noble  dead ! 

*  <(  The  growing  darkness  added  solemnity  to  the  scene.  Suddenly 
the  irregular  firing  ceased,  and  the  solemn  voice  of  a  single  cannon, 
at  measured  intervals,  boomed  along  the  valley  and  awakened  the 
repose  of  the  hills.  It  was  a  minute-gun  fired  by  the  Americans  in 
honor  of  the  gallant  dead.  The  moment  information  was  given 
that  the  gathering  at  the  redoubt  was  a  funeral  company,  fulfilling 
amid  imminent  perils  the  last-breathed  wishes  of  the  noble  Frazer, 
orders  were  given  to  withhold  the  cannonade  with  balls,  and  to  render 
military  homage  to  the  fallen  brave."  [Lossings'  Field  Book  of  the 
Revolution,  p.  65,  vol.  1. 


32 


JANE  M'CREA. 


And  many  a  stern  heart's  mute  despair, 
Was  melted  into  softness  there, 

And  hot  tears  fell  like  rain, 
O'er  the  bold  soldier's  coffined  form, 

The  gallant  Frazer  slain  ! 

The  night  came  down  in  silence  grand 

Above  the  hero's  grave  ; 
They  turned  away  that  mournful  band— 

They  left  the  sleeping  brave 
Far  from  his  own,  his  native  land, 

Beyond  the  deep  blue  wave, 
And  cloud  and  storm  and  gathering  gloom, 
Were  mourners  at  the  warrior's  tomb  ! 


'T  was  the  wild  eve  of  that  dread  day 

When  Albion's  haughty  standard  fell, 
Ked  lightnings  flashed  above  the  slain, 

And  thunders  tolled  a  fearful  knell. 
The  dying  wail,  the  hollow  groan 
Blent  strangely  with  the  hoarse  wind's  moan, 
And  darkly  o'er  the  fatal  Eights 

Where  cold  the  ghastly  fallen  slept, 
Black  clouds  hung  like  a  sable  pall, 

And  sad  the  pitying  heavens  wept. 

Out  in  the  deep  night's  starless  gloom, 

Like  a  white  angel  in  the  storm, 
Moved  by  her  pure  heart's  deathless  love, 


THE    SEQUEL. 


33 


Stole  woman's  frail  and  tender  form.* 
Above  her  burst  the  tempest's  wrath, 
And  shadows  gathered  o'er  her  path. 
And  yet  the  hurtling,  shrieking  blast 

Swept  all  unheeded  by ; 
For  colder  than  the  blinding  rain, 
The  weary  weight  of  grief  and  pain. 

That  on  her  soul  did  lie. 
With  falling  tears  her  face  grew  damp, 

A  mist  came  o'er  her  clear,  blue  eye ; 
Her  love,-  her  light,  her  spirit's  pride, 
He  whose  low  voice  had  called  her,  bride, 
Bound  bleeding  in  the  foeman's  camp, 

Had  laid  him  down  to  die. 


*  When  the  wife  of  Major  Ackland  learned  that  her  husband  was 
wounded  and  a  prisoner,  she  resolved  to  solicit  of  the  enemy  the 
favor  of  ministering  to  him,  personally,  in  his  affliction.  The  night 
she  set  out  for  the  American  camp  was  wild  and  stormy,  rendering 
the  voyage  on  the  river  extremely  perilous. 

General  Burgoyne  thus  writes  concerning  the  proposal  of  Lady 
Harriet  to  visit  the  camp  of  the  enemy,  which  was  submitted  to  his 
decision  :  "  Though  I  was  ready  to  believe  that  patience  and  forti 
tude,  in  a  supreme  degree,  were  to  be  found,  as  well  as  every  other 
virtue,  under  the  most  tender  forms,  I  was  astonished  at  this  proposal. 
After  so  long  an  agitation  of  spirits,  exhausted  not  only  by  want 
of  rest,  but,  absolutely,  want  of  food ;  drenched  in  rains  for  twelve 
hours  together  ;  that  a  woman  should  be  capable  of  such  an  under 
taking  as  delivering  herself  to  the  enemy,  probably  in  the  night,  and 
uncertain  of  what  hands  she  might  first  fall  into,  appeared  an  effort 
above  human  nature.  *  *  *  * 

"  Let  such  as  are  affected  by  these  circumstances  of  alarm,  hardship 
and  danger,  recollect  that  the  subject  of  them  was  a  woman ;  of  the 
most  tender  and  delicate  frame  ;  of  the  gentlest  manners,  and  habit 
uated  to  all  the  soft  elegancies  and  refined  enjoyments  that  attend  high 
birth  and  fortune.  Her  mind  alone  was  formed  for  such  trials." 


JANE    M' ORE  A. 


Oh,  stronger  in  that  awful  hour, 

Arid  mightier  than  the  strife, 
Her  tried  affection's  holy  power, 
That  lofty  inspiration  gave, 
And  nerved  with  courage,  calm  and  brave, 

The  true,  high-hearted  wife  ! 
She  in  her  fearless  faith  would  seek 

The  proud,  victorious  foe, 
The  chilling  grief  that  blanched  her  cheek, 
To  the  stern  hearts  of  men  should  speak : 
The  strong  should  bow  before  the  weak. 

And  pity  her  wild  woe.* 
Her  love  the  stricken  one  should  bless, 
Her  lips  the  brow  of  pain  should  press, 
By  all  her  soul's  deep  tenderness, 

She  to  her  lord  would  go ! 

Down  by  the  surging  river's  shore, 
Lashed  by  the  foaming  spray, 

*  The  following  account  of  the  devoted  wife's  reception  at  the  Amer 
ican  camp,  is  from  the  pen  of  Wilkinson:  "  About  ten  o'clock  I  was 
advised  from  the  advanced  guard  on  the  river,  that  a  batteau  under 
a  flag  of  truce  had  arrived  from  the  enemy,  with  a  lady  on  board, 
who  bore  a  letter  to  General  Gates  from  General  Burgoyrie.  *  *  * 

"The  party  on  board  the  boat  attracted  the  attention  of  the 
sentinel,  and  he  had  not  hailed  ten  minutes  before  she  struck  the 
shore ;  the  lady  was  immediately  conveyed  into  the  apartment  of 
Major  Dearborn,  which  had  been  cleared  for  her  reception.  The  next 
morning  when  I  visited  the  guard,  before  sunrise,  her  boat  had  put 
off  and  W7as  floating  down  the  stream  to  our  camp,  where  General 
Gates,  whose  gallantry  will  not  be  denied,  stood  ready  to  receive  her 
with  all  the  tenderness  and  respect  to  which  her  rank  and  condition 
gave  her  a  claim  ;  indeed,  the  feminine  figure,  the  benign  aspect,  and 
polished  manners  of  this  charming  woman  were  alone  sufficient  to 
attract  the  sympathy  of  the  most  obdurate." 


LITTLE    CHILDREN. 


With  spreading  sail  and  waiting  oar, 

The  frail  boat  ready  lay — 
And  thither  with  light  step  and  fleet, 
Her  fond  heart  winging  her  fast  feet, 

The  brave  wife  bent  her  way. 
A  moment's  pause,  a  brief  space  o'er, 
And  swift  the  light,  careering  barque, 
Launched  out  upon  the  waters  dark, 
And  closer  round  her  shivering  form, 
Fell  the  cold  mantle  of  the  storm. 

Oh,  strengthened  by  the  holy  flame, 

That  glows  within  her  breast, 
And  nerves  with  power  her  gentle  frame, 
When  clouds  come  o?er  her  heaven  fair, 
What  will  not  woman  do  and  dare 
For  those  her  love  hath  blest ! 


LITTLE    CHILDREN. 

THERE  is  music,  there  is  sunshine, 

Where  the  little  children  dwell, 
In  the  cottage,  in  the  mansion, 

In  the  hut  or  in  the  cell ; 
There  is  music  in  their  voices, 

There  is  sunshine  in  their  love, 
And  a  joy  forever  round  them, 

Like  a  glory  from  above. 


LITTLE    CHILDREN. 


There's  a  laughter-loving  spirit 

Glancing  from  the  soft  blue  eyes, 
Flashing  through  the  pearly  tear-drops, 

Changing  like  the  summer  skies ; 
Lurking  in  each  roguish  dimple, 

Nestling  in  each  ringlet  fair, 
Over  all  the  little  child-face 

Gleaming,  glancing  every  where. 

They  will  win  our  smiles  and  kisses, 

By  a  thousand  pleasant  ways, 
By  the  sweet  bewitching  beauty 

Of  their  sunny,  upward  gaze  ; 
And  we  cannot  help  but  love  them, 

When  their  young  lips  meet  our  own, 
And  the  magic  of  their  presence 

Round  about  our  hearts  is  thrown. 

Little  children  !  yes,  we  love  them 

For  their  spirit's  ceaseless  flow, 
For  the  joy  that  ever  lingers 

Where  their  bounding  footsteps  go ; 
'T  is  the  sunshine  of  their  presence 

Makes  the  lowly  cottage  fair, 
And  the  palace  is  a  prison 

If  no  little  one  is  there. 

When  they  ask  us  curious  questions, 
In  a  sweet,  confiding  way,   . 

We  can  only  smile  in  wonder, 
Hardly  knowing  what  to  say ; 


LITTLE    CHILDREN. 


37 


As  they  sit  in  breathless  silence, 
Waiting  for  our  kind  replies, 

What  a  world  of  mystic  meaning 
Dwells  within  the  lifted  eyes. 

If,  perchance,  some  passing  shadow 

Kests  upon  the  little  heart, 
Then  the  pouting  lip  will  quiver 

And  the  silent  tear  will  start ; 
Yet 't  is  only  for  a  moment, 

Sunny  smiles  again  will  play, 
At  a  tone  or  word  of  kindness, 

Spoken  in  a  pleasant  way. 

Now  we  see  them  meekly  kneeling 

In  the  quiet  hour  of  prayer, 
Now  we  hear  their  ringing  laughter 

Floating  on  the  summer  air ; 
Breathing  all  the  soul  of  music, 

Soft  it  rises,  clear  it  swells, 
In  its  wild  and  thrilling  gladness, 

Sweeter  than  the  chime  of  bells. 

Hath  this  world  of  ours  no  angels  ? 

Do  our  dimly  shaded  eyes 
Ne'er  behold  the  seraph's  glory 

In  its  meek  and  lowly  guise  ? 
Can  we  see  the  little  children, 

Ever  beautiful  and  mild, 
And  again  repeat  the  story, 

Nothing  but  a  little  child  ? 


4M- 

BCKr 


LITTLE    CHILDREN. 


I  have  seen  them  watch  the  glory 

Of  the  purple  sunset  sky, 
All  the  soul's  unuttered  feeling 

Beaming  from  the  speaking  eye  ; 
To  my  heart  there  came  a  rapture 

Which  the  lifted  face  did  bring, 
And  I  thought,  within  rny  spirit, 

Childhood  is  a  holy  thing. 

When  the  soul,  all  faint  and  weary, 

Falters  in  the  upward  way, 
And  the  clouds  around  us  gather, 

Shutting  out  each  starry  ray ; 
Then  the  merry  voice  of  childhood 

Seems  a  soft  and  soothing  strain — 
List  we  to  its  silvery  cadence, 

And  our  hearts  grow  glad  again. 

When  they  talk  to  us  of  Heaven, 

How  we  listen,  half  in  awe  ! 
As  if  they  some  holy  vision — 

Some  resplendent  glory  saw ; 
For  we  know  that  they  are  better, 

They  are  holier  than  we, 
And  they  seem  to  us  as  angels, 

Spotless  in  their  purity. 

Little  children,  are  ye  happy  ? 

Are  ye  never,  never  sad  ? 
Are  your  brows  forever  cloudless, 

And  your  hearts  forever  glad  ? 


LITTLE     CHILDREN. 


39 


Is  there  light  and  joy  forever, 
Where  your  merry  footsteps  fall, 

In  the  orchard,  in  the  garden, 
In  the  yard  or  in  the  hall  ? 

Is  there  freedom  in  your  laughter  ? 

Is  there  gladness  in  your  tones  ? 
Is  there  sunlight  in  your  child-hearts  ? 

Tell  me,  0  ye  little  ones ! 
Ah !  we  hear  no  whispered  sorrow, 

Breathing  of  the  heart's  unrest, 
Well  we  know  that  ye  are  happy, 

Well  we  know  that  ye  are  blest. 

Oh  !  I  wonder  not  the  Saviour, 

He,  the  beautiful,  the  meek, 
To  the  precious  little  children, 

Tender,  loving  words  did  speak. 
?T  is  a  pleasant  thing  to  teach  them 

Unto  him  to  bend  the  knee, 
Since  He  spake  the  words  of  blessing, 

"  Suffer  them  to  come  to  me." 

Yea,  of  such  is  heaven's  kingdom, 

And  if  we  would  enter  there, 
We  must  seek  the  sinless  garment 

Which  the  little  child  doth  wear. 
Father,  bless  the  little  children, 

Bless  them  every  where  they  dwell — 
In  the  palace,  in  the  mansion, 

In  the  hut  or  in  the  cell  ; 


EARNEST. 


May  the  clouds  of  sin  and  sorrow 
Never  darken  o'er  their  way, 

And  in  heart  may  we  be  like  them, 
Pure  and  innocent  as  they. 


EARNEST. 

EARNEST  !  t'  is  a  little  word, 
Often  spoken,  often  heard, 
Written,  printed,  read  and  spelt, 
Mighty  only  when  't  is  felt ! 
Earnest !  t'  is  the  electric  fire, 
Kindled  by  the  high  desire, 
Glowing  solemnly  and  still, 
Moulding  all  things  to  the  will, 
Soul  of  action,  spring  of  thought, 
"Working  miracles  of  nought, 
Throwing  years  into  an  hour, 
Volumes  may  not  tell  its  power ! 

Student  with  the  thoughtful  brow, 
Lighted  by  ambition's  glow, 
Toiling  up  the  rugged  steep, 
Worn  and  weary,  faint  and  weak, 
Beaching  after  hidden  things, 
Wouldst  thou  soar  on  eagle- wings — 
Wouldst  thou  scale  the  mountain's  hight, 


EARNEST. 


41 


Bathe  in  the  unclouded  light, 
See  the  secret  fount  unsealed, 
Eead  the  mystery  revealed, 
Earnest  delving  in  the  mine, 
Where  the  gems  of  science  shine, 
Earnest  seeking  for  the  light, 
That  shall  make  the  darkness  bright 
Earnestness  to  will  and  do, 
Deep,  resistless,  strong  and  true — 
This  shall  prove  the  master  key, 
Opening  the  way  for  thee, 
This  shall  plant  thy  fainting  feet 
Where  the  crystal  waters  meet, 
Gushing  from  Castalia's  springs, 
This  shall  lend  thy  spirit  wings, 
Throne  thee  in  the  sea  of  light 
Streaming  from  the  mountain's  hight. 

Poet,  with  the  dreamy  eye, 
Born  with  aspirations  high, 
Wouldst  thou  weave  the  burning  thought 
Into  strains  with  music  fraught, 
Binding  with  a  mighty  spell, 
Wheresoever  thy  numbers  swell, 
Chaining  e'en  the  idle  throng, 
Give  thy  soul  unto  thy  song ! 
Poesy  languished  till  it  caught 
Genius  from  the  earnest  thought  — 
Write  in  earnest,  ye  that  write, 
Let  the  heart  the  words  indite ; 


142 


EARNEST. 


Write  not  for  a  sounding  name, 
Not  for  fortune,  not  for  fame, 
Write  not  for  the  things  that,  be, 
Write — but  for  eternity. 

Statesman,  with  the  tongue  of  flame, 
Jealous  of  thy  country's  fame, 
Wouldst  thou  wield  the  sword  of  might, 
Plead  in  earnest  for.  the  right ; 
Wouldst  thou  sway  the  breathless  crowd 
By  thine  inspiration  bowed, 
Earnestly  and  firmly  speak  ; 
This  shall  flush  the  listener's  cheek, 
This  shall  fire  the  kindling  eye, 
Flashing  back  the  soul's  reply  ; 
This  shall  prove  the  wondrous  charm 
That  shall  error's  hosts  disarm, 
Yea,  each  thrilling  word  shall  then 
Tell  upon  the  hearts  of  men, 
And  thine  earnestness  shall  be 
Mind  and  strength  and  power  to  thee. 

Christian  !  'mid  the  tempest's  strife, 
On  the  stormy  sea  of  life, 
Wouldst  thou  safely  steer  thy  barque 
O'er  the  waters  deep  and  dark ; 
Wouldst  thou  win  the  dazzling  prize, 
Veiled  away  from  mortal  eyes, 
Earnest  clinging  to  the  cross, 
When  the  angry  billows  toss, 


Earnest  faith  and  earnest  prayer, 
Earnest  will  to  do  and  bear, 
These  shall  pave  the  way  for  thee 
Unto  immortality. 
Pray  in  earnest,  ye  that  pray, 
Work  in  earnest  while  ye  may } 
Very  few  shall  wear  the  crown, 
Who  would  lay  their  armor  down ; 
Very  few  shall  win  the  day 
Who  are  weary  by  the  way ! 
Very  few  shall  enter  in, 
Who  have  not  in  earnest  been. 


Earnest !  't  is  a  little  word, 
Often  spoken,  often  heard, 
Written,  printed,  read  and  spelt, 
Mighty  only  when  't  is  felt ! 
'T  is  the  earnest  word  that  tells, 
'T  is  the  earnest  stroke  that  fells, 
'T  is  the  earnest  soul  that 's  stron< 
'T  is  the  earnest  life  that 's  long  ; 
Soul  of  action,  spring  of  thought, 
Working  miracles  of  nought, 
Throwing  years  into  an  hour, 
Volumes  may  not  tell  its  power ! 


•her 


FIRESIDE    ANGELS. 


FIRESIDE  ANGELS. 

THE  fireside  is  a  holy  place, 

A  consecrated  spot, 
We  daily  meet  with  angels  here, 

We  see  and  know  them  not ; 
It  may  be  that  a  sister's  form 

Is  but  a  seraph's  guise, 
An  angel's  soul  may  look  on  us 

From  out  a  mother's  eyes. 

We  may  not  see  the  shining  form, 

Or  hear  the  rustling  wing, 
Our  angels  may  not  sing  the  songs 

That  other  angels  sing ; 
And  we  may  daily  kneel  with  them 

And  hear  their  fervent  tone, 
And  never  dream  that  we  have  bowed 

With  angels  at  the  throne. 

It  may  be  that  our  watching  eyes 

Have  missed  one  gentle  face, 
It  may  be  that  the  firelight  shines 

Upon  one  vacant  place ; 
We  hear  again  the  low,  sweet  voice, 

We  feel  her  presence  near, 
And  know  't  was  one  of  finer  clay 

That  tarried  with  us  here. 


FIRESIDE    ANGELS. 


45 


Perchance  we  marked  the  changing  cheek, 

The  earnest,  thrilling  gaze, 
We  saw  she  was  not  as  the  rest, 

And  wondered  at  her  ways : 
We  could  not  tell  what  made  her  so, 

For  she  was  always  thus, 
And  so  we  said  within  our  hearts, 

She  is  but  one  of  us. 

A  joy  and  yet  a  mystery, 

She  lingered  by  our  side, 
We  saw  her  when  her  cheek  grew  pale, 

We  saw  her  when  she  died  ; 
And  when  they  heaped  the  cold  damp  clods 

Above  her  senseless  breast, 
We  knew  't  was  one  with  shining  wings 

They  laid  away  to  rest.          ( ^ 

It  is  the  spirit  of  the  skies, 

The  sweet  and  patient  trust, 
That  forms  a  seraph  of  the  clay, 

An  angel  of  the  dust ; 
And  when  we  see  a  pale,  meek  brow, 

A  gentle,  love-lit  eye, 
These  doubting  hearts  of  ours  may  know, 

An  angel  passes  by ! 

They  come  not  to  the  homes  of  earth, 

Clothed  in  immortal  light, 
No  dazzling  forms  in  floating  robes 

Burst  on  the  raptured  sight ; 


UNWRITTEN    POETRY. 


With  words  of  love  and  tenderness, 
With  meek  and  quiet  mien, 

They  come  to  us  as  came  of  old 
The  lowly  Nazarene. 

Yet  though  our  angels  walk  with  us 

Unheeded  and  unknown. 
When  God  shall  make  His  jewels  up, 

And  seal  them  for  His  own, 
Full  many  a  lowly  one  of  earth 

Who  walks  in  meekness  here, 
Shall  drop  the  mantle  of  the  dust 

And  shine  an  angel  there ! 


UNWKITTEN  POETKY. 

A  SILENT  poem  is  a  holy  thing ! 

It  hath  a  pure,  unuttered,  quiet  joy, 

An  inborn  music  tremulous  and  low, 

Breathing  its  bliss  into  the  swelling  heart 

Until  the  soul  grows  hushed  beneath  the  spell, 

And  the  deep  feeling  finds  no  gushing  voice, 

To  pour  the  burden  of  its  rapture  out. 

The  soul  of  poetry  hath  no  home  in  words  ! 

Creation's  face  is  radiant  with  its  seal, 

The  glad  earth  folds  it  to  her  thrilling  heart, 

The  bending  heavens  drink  in  its  wondrous  light, 

And  the  fair  page  of  God's  unwritten  book, 


UNWRITTEN    POETRY. 


47 


Glows  into  glory  'neath  its  kindling  smile. 
The  gorgeous  clouds  are  floating  melodies. 
The  springing  grass  a  waving  harmony, 
The  sunshine  is  a  song,  the  wind  a  strain, 
The  flowers  are  poems  and  the  stars  are  hymns, 
And  the  deep  voice  of  Nature's  blended  choir 
One  grand  majestic  anthem. 

Bound  us  floats 

The  silent  gladness  of  that  wordless  song, 
And,  like  a  bird,  the  chainless  spirit  soars 
Away  beyond  the  veiling  clouds  of  earth, 
Drinks  in  the  music  of  the  rolling  spheres, 
Scales  the  proud  hights  of  Fancy's  airy  realm, 
And  revels  in  a  bright  enchanted  world. 
Then  come  the  crowding  thoughts,  so  deep  with  joy, 
The  being  bows  beneath  their  glorious  weight, 
And  the  full  heart  throbs  with  a  new  delight, 
And  strives  to  teach  the  lip  a  fitting. voice, 
To  breathe  its  burden,  so  that  all  may  feel. 
Oh,  say  not  poetry  lives  in  pleasant  sounds, 
And  ripples  out  its  free  melodious  soul, 
In  the  clear  warble  of  a  running  rhyme ! 
There  is  a  native  chime  and  melody 
In  the  sweet  flow  of  silver  singing  words, 
And  the  glad  thought  unfolded  to  the  gaze, 
The  bright  creation  of  the  poet  mind, 
Hath  much  of  beauty  in  its  graceful  guise 
Of  mellow  sounds  and  numbers  soft  and  low. 
Yet  these  are  but  the  living  fountain's  spray, 
The  sparkling  foam  upon  the  ocean's  breast, 


UNWKITTEN    POETRY. 


The  dim  revealing  of  the  inner  light 

That  throws  a  halo  o'er  a  thing  of  joy, 

And  glorifies  the  beautiful  of  earth. 

The  words  that  glow  upon  the  printed  page, 

That  chain  the  eye  and  wake  the  answering  thought. 

Are  as  the  shadow  of  the  glory-light, 

Circling  the  radiant  heaven  of  the  soul, 

The  far-off  echo  of  the  rapturous  voice, 

Forever  singing  in  the  poet's  heart. 

Oh,  there  are  those  within  this  world  of  ours, 

To  whom  the  very  air  grows  tremulous 

And  quivers  with  the  breath  of  song — and  yet 

They  live,  o'ershadow'd  by  the  voiceless  awe 

That  dares  not  speak  !    Aye,  many  a  soul  hath  thrilPd 

To  the  low  music  swept  from  Po.esy's  harp, 

And  yet  the  lip  was  mute !  the  silent  seal 

Was  set  and  fixed  upon  the  tongue  of  flame, 

And  the  high  spirit  spurned  the  feeble  words 

That  fain  would  chain  and  bind  the  burning  thought, 

And  trusted  rather  to  the  kindling  eye, 

And  flushing  cheek,  and  glowing,  speaking  face, 

To  tell  how  deep,  how  eloquent  a  joy 

Was  gushing  in  the  heart. 

Oh,  they  are  blest 

Who  find  a  glory  where  the  dimmer  eye 
Sees  nought  of  loveliness  !  who  weave  of  life 
A  song  of  sunshine  and  a  psalm  of  praise, 
Who  gather  music  from  the  singing  stars, 


THE    BAIN. 


And  bow  the  knee  where'er  the  holy  seal 
Of  Beauty's  kiss  is  set !     Yea,  they  are  blest 
Though  the  rapt  soul  hath  never  told  its  joy, 
Nor  the  sealed  lip  breathed  out  one  thrilling  tone, 
That  spoke  the  blessedness  that  reigned  within ! 
The  inner  light  shall  purer,  softer  glow, 
The  inner  music  clearer,  deeper  swell, 
Until  beyond  the  shadowy  land  of  Death, 
The  prisoned  voice  shall  wake  to  melody, 
And  swell  the  chorus  of  the  angels'  song. 
There  the  mute  seal  from  the  glad  spirit  loosed, 
Shall  melt  away  before  the  breath  of  God ; 
There  Poesy's  soul,  breathing  its  native  air, 
Shall  drink  the  clear,  eternal  sunshine  in, 
And  the  hushed  heart  shall  find  a  seraph-strain, 
To  hymn  the  rapture  of  its  perfect  praise ! 


THE  KAIK 

LIKE  a  gentle  joy  descending, 
To  the  earth  a  glory  lending, 

Comes  the  pleasant  rain ; 
Fairer  now  the  flowers  are  growing, 
Fresher  now  the  winds  are  blowing, 
Swifter  now  the  streams  are  flowing, 

Gladder  waves  the  grain ; 


I50 


THE    RAIN. 


Grove  and  forest,  field  and  mountain, 
Bathing  in  the  crystal  fountain, 
Drinking  in  the  inspiration, 
Offer  up  a  glad  oblation 
All  around,  about,  above  us, 
Things  we  love  and  things  that  love  us, 
Bless  the  gentle  rain. 

Children's  voices  now  are  ringing,   ^ 
Some  are  shouting,  some  are  singing, 

On  the  way  to  school ; 
And  the  beaming  eye  shines  brighter, 
And  the  bounding  pulse  beats  lighter, 
As  the  little  feet  grow  whiter, 

Paddling  in  the  pool ; 
0  the  rain !  it  is  a  blessing, 
Sweeter  than  the  sun's  caressing, 
Softer,  gentler — yea,  in  seeming, 
Gladder  than  the  sunlight  gleaming, 
To  the  children  shouting,  singing, 
With  the  voices  clear  and  ringing, 

Going  to  the  school. 

Beautiful,  and  still,  and  holy, 
Like  the  spirit  of  the  lowly, 

Comes  the  quiet  rain ; 
'T  is  a  fount  of  joy,  distilling, 
And  the  lyre  of  earth  is  trilling, 
With  a  music  low  and  thrilling, 

Swelling  to  a  strain ; 


THE    KAIN. 


Nature  opens  wide  her  bosom, 
Bursting  buds  begin  to  blossom, 
To  her  very  soul 't  is  stealing. 
All  the  springs  of  life  unsealing, 
Singing  stream  and  rushing  river, 
Drink  it  in  and  praise  the  Giver 
Of  the  blessed  rain. 

Lo  !  the  clouds  are  slowly  parting, 
Sudden  gleams  of  light  are  darting 

Through  the  falling  rain ; 
Bluer  now  the  sky  is  beaming, 
Softer  now  the  light  is  streaming, 
With  its  shining  fingers  gleaming 

"Mid  the  golden  grain ; 
Greener  now  the  grass  is  springing, 
Sweeter  now  the  birds  are  singing, 
Clearer  now  the  shout  is  ringing, 
Earth,  the  purified,  rejoices 
With  her  silver-sounding  voices, 
Sparkling,  flashing  like  a  prism, 
In  the  beautiful  baptism 

Of  the  blessed  rain. 


THE    BLIND    BARD    OF    ENGLAND. 


THE  BLIND  BAKD  OF  ENGLAND 

WHEN  we  unlatch  the  gate  of  dreams, 

And  step  within  the  mystic  land, 
A  floating  halo  round  us  streams, 

And  shadowy  shapes,  an  airy  band, 
Go  wandering  through  the  spirit's  aisles, 
And  gleams  of  light  and  sudden  smiles 
Too  radiant  for  the  waking  gaze, 
Flash  through  the  dim  and  dreamy  haze — 
We  sleep,  we  dream,  another  world 

Unfolds  unto  the  wondering  mind, 
Our  eyes  are  shut,  we  cannot  see, 

Yet  who  shall  say  that  we  are  blind  ? 

Milton !  a  deeper,  darker  seal 

Shut  out  from  thee  the  holy  light, 
To  thee  the  sun  and  stars  were  veiled, 

To  thee  the  noon  was  as  the  night ! 
The  music  of  the  morning  bells 

Was  but  the  solemn  vesper  chime, 
Nor  summer's  green,  nor  autumn's  gold 

Came  with  the  rolling  sounds  of  time ; 
The  tinted  clouds,  the  stars,  the  flowers, 

The  gorgeous  earth,  the  bending  skies, 
The  glory  of  this  world  of  ours, 

Were  shadowed  from  thy  sightless  eyes, 


THE    BLIND    BARD    OF    ENGLAND. 


53 


No  ray  of  sunshine,  pure  and  blest, 

On  thy  benighted  vision  stole, 
Yet  shall  we  say  that  darkness  swayed 

Its  sable  scepter  o'er  thy  soul  ? 
Were  the  black  clouds  of  rayless  night, 

Pavilion  of  the  god-like  mind 
That  soared  above  the  stars  of  heaven  ? 

Thou  Bard  of  England,  wert  thou  blind? 

Nay !  Milton  only  shut  his  eyes 
And  looked  away  to  Paradise, 
Just  as  when  sleep,  the  holy  thing, 

Veils  from  our  eyes  the  sunny  gleams, 
Folds  o'er  the  heart  its  loving  wing, 

We  look  into  the  land  of  dreams. 
What  light  from  the  celestial  goal 
Streamed  down  upon  the  poet's  soul ! 
What  radiance  from  the  burning  throne 
Around  him,  like  a  glory,  shone ! 
He  soared  unto  the  morning  land, 

Faith  winged  his  flight,  he  could  not  doubt, 
He  saw  the  golden  gates  thrown  back, 

The  angels  going  in  and  out — 
The  splendor  of  the  shining  streets, 

The  inner  portals  opened  wide, 
The  pavement  like  a  jasper  sea, 

The  river's  clear  and  crystal  tide 
That  wanders  'mid  the  fadeless  bowers, 

And  winding  through  the  midst  of  Heaven 
Kolls  o'er  the  fair  Elysian  flowers — 


54  THE    BLIND    BARD    OF    ENGLAND. 

He  dared  to  lift  the  mystic  veil 
That  shadows  out  the  great  unseen, 

The  spirit's  glad,  triumphant  gaze, 
Fell  not  before  the  dazzling  sheen, 

The  eye  of  the  immortal  mind 

Was  never  dim — was  Milton  blind  ? 

A  thousand  times  more  blind  than  he, 
Are  they  who  seeing,  never  see, 
Whose  eyes  drink  in  the  pleasant  light, 
Whose  souls  sit  robed  in  starless  night — 
A  thousand  times  more  blest  the  seal 

That  shuts  the  sunlight  from  the  blind, 
Than  the  eternal,  sunless  cloud 

That  shrouds  the  vision  of  the  mind ! 
Oh !  if  the  world  be  veiled  away, 

If  sun,  nor  star,  upon  us  shine, 
If  ne'er  returns  the  dawning  day> 

Nor  light  of  "  human  face  divine/' 
Yet,  if  the  beatific  seal 

That  shut  the  Bard  of  England's  eyes, 
Give  unto  us  the  quenchless  ray 

That  beamed  upon  him  from  the  skies } 
Yea,  if  the  wondrous  gift  be  ours 

To  talk  with  angels  as  with  men, 
To  con  the  mystic  lore  of  Heaven, 

And  write  it  with  a  flaming  pen> 
Like  Milton's  could  the  restless  soul 

Away  its  chafing  fetters  fling, 
And  in  the  pure,  transparent  sea 


THE    BLIND    BARD    OF    ENGLAND. 


55 


Of  God's  own  glory  bathe  its  wing, 
And  as  he  sung,  oh  could  we  sing, 
Then  blindness  were  a  blessed  thing ! 

Call  him  not  blind,  to  whom  't  was  given 
To  soar  away  from  earth  to  Heaven ! 
The  splendor  of  the  noon- day  sun 

Is  dim  unto  the  clearer  light, 
The  holy  flood  that  inward  shone 

And  planted  there  a  seraph's  sight. 
The  lamp  of  God  was  in  his  soul, 

And  clouds  and  darkness  fled  away, 
As  melt  the  early  morning  mists, 

Before  the  open  eye  of  day. 
He  looked  where  others  dared  not  lookj 

He  saw,  yet  not  as  others  see, 
With  Faith's  clear  eye  he  gazed  away, 

And  pierced  the  clouds  of  mystery ; 
When  from  the  dazzling  scene  he  turned, 
The  poet's  soul  within  him  burned, 
The  thrilling  joy  that  silent  came, 
'Woke  there  a  bright  celestial  flame, 
The  poetry  of  his  master  mind, 

The  native  music,  deep  and  strong, 
Burst  forth  in  one  undying  strain, 

One  rapturous  tide  of  holy  song. 
Oh,  not  as  others  sing,  he  sung, 
His  lyre  was  as  an  angel's  tongue ! 
He  saw  and  told  of  things  unseen, 


56  THE    BLIND    BARD    OF    ENGLAND. 

Of  highest  Heaven,  of  deepest  Hell, 
Till  wondering  nations  bowed  entranced, 

Awed  by  the  strange  and  solemn  spell. 
What  high  mysterious  power  was  this, 

With  daring  hand  to  lift  the  screen, 
And  rend  away  the  mystic  veil, 

Between  the  seen  and  the  unseen ! 
What  wondrous  skill,  untold,  divine, 

That  bold  and  fearless  pen  had  taught 
To  paint  the  mighty  scenes  of  strife, 

Where  devils  with  archangels  fought ! 
Had  one  descended  from  the  skies, 
A  seraph  in  a  mortal's  guise  ? 
Had  he  laid  off  his  shining  robes, 

And  mingled  with  them,  as  a  man, 
Who  on  the  battle  plains  of  Heaven, 

Had  once  with  Gabriel  led  the  van  ? 
Nay !  't  was  the  spirit  of  our  God 

That  breathed  upon  his  soul  the  fire, 
That  thrilled  his  spirit's  quivering  chords, 

And  woke  the  Bard  of  England's  lyre ! 

Immortal  Milton  !  thou  hast  tuned 
Thy  harp  unto  a  nobler  strain, 

Yea,  as  of  old,  the  master  hand, 

Sweeps  o'er  the  trembling  strings  again, 

The  soul's  deep  music,  full  and  clear, 

Swells  higher  now,  and  yet  not  here  ! 

Away  beyond  the  arching  skies 


THE   SPIRIT   OF    SONG. 


57 


With  Heaven's  high  minstrels  thou  dost  bow, 
The  film  has  faded  from  thine  eyes, 

And  face  to  face  thou  seest  now, 
No  shadow  veils  the  seraph-band, 
There  are  no  blind  within  that  land, 
Nor  sun,  nor  star,  nor  noon,  nor  night, 
Thou  art  with  God,  and  "  God  is  LIGHT/' 


THE  SPIRIT  OF   SONG. 

IT  comes  to  me  in  the  early  day 

When  the  bright  clouds  float  on  their  morning  way 

It  comes  to  me  when  the  skies  are  fair, 

And  a  bird-song  swells  on  the  summer  air, 

When  the  sunshine  floats  with  a  quivering  smile 

To  the  emerald  heart  of  the  forest  aisle  ; 

It  comes  with  its  wealth  of  radiant  dreams, 

Nor  the  tint  that  glows,  nor  the  light  that  gleams, 

May  bind  my  soul  with  so  sweet  a  spell 

As  the  Spirit  of  Song  I  love  so  well. 

It  comes  to  me  when  the  red  light  plays, 

And  the  bright  waves  blush  in  the  sunset's  blaze, 

When  the  gorgeous  glow  of  the  clouds  that  lie, 

Like  an  island  group,  in  the  dreamy  sky, 

Flashes  softly  down  on  the  waters  blue, 

And  wreathes  a  garland  of  glorious  hue, 


THE    SPIRIT    OF    SONG. 


And  a  spell  more  bright  than  the  flashing  light, 
And  a  wreath  more  fair  than  the  cloud-wreath  there, 
It  weaves  for  me,  as  it  floats  along, 
The  gushing  voice  of  the  Soul  of  Song. 

It  comes  to  me  in  the  stilly  night, 

When  the  sky  is  clear  and  the  stars  are  bright, 

When  the  moonlight  silvers  the  waving  trees, 

And  a  soft  strain  steals  on  the  floating  breeze, 

When  the  beautiful  heaven  hath  lost  its  flush, 

And  the  air  is  still  with  a  holy  hush — 

It  comes  to  me  and  I  know  not  why, 

For  my  dreams  grow  bright  and  my  heart  swells  high, 

With  a  sudden  joy  and  a  new  delight, 

When  it  sings  to  me  in  the  starry  night. 

O'er  the  golden  chords  of  my  spirit's  lyre, 

Its  fingers  sweep,  and  a  music  fire 

Swells  softly  up  from  the  trembling  strings^ 

A  note  of  the  rapturous  strain  it  brings, 

And  there  comes  a  joy 'to  my  throbbing  heart, 

That  forms  of  my  being  the  purest  part, 

Till  my  soul  grows  glad  with  an  unbreathed  prayer, 

And  I  kneel  and  utter  its  burden  there, 

When  the  star-light  rests  on  the  waters  clear, 

And  none  but  the  God  of  love  is  near. 

It  comes  to  me  wheii  the  wild  winds  moan, 
And  my  sad  heart  thrills  with  an  answering  tone, 
It  comes  when  the  chime  of  a  distant  bell 
Is  borne  on  the  air  with  a  silvery  swell, 


THE    SPIRIT   OF    SONG; 


When  a  rippling  laugh  and  a  merry  shout, 
And  a  gay  glad  voice,  in  their  joy,  ring  out, 
When  the  wind-harp  plays  'mid  the  tasseled  trees, 
And  their  banners  wave  in  the  rustling  breeze^ — 
It  comes  to  me  but  it  stays  not  long, 
The  singing  voice  of  the  Soul  of  Song. 

It  breathes  on  my  heart  in  the  hour  of  prayer^ 

And  wakens  a  heavenly  music  there ; 

It  shado^Lmy  soul  with  its  shining  wing 

And  whjB^rs  of  many  a  beautiful  thing ; 

It  singjwstrain  of  the  land  afar 

Where  Ine  Saviour  dwells  and  the  angels  are, 

A  strain  so  blest  that  a  thrilling  smile 

Bests  softly  down  on  my  heart  the  while, 

And  a  new  light  glows  and  a  sunshine 

In  tha^nusic  sweet  that  the  Spirit  gives. 

rhy  it  comes  to  me, 

and  beautiful  mystery ! 

a  joy  for  the  dream  of  life, 
If  hWHMMjihe  storm,  it  hath  hushed  the  strife  : 
Oh !  nor  Wnfe  wealth  of  the  glittering  mine, 
Would  I  lose  the  light  of  its  smile  divine, 
I  would  feel  the  hush  of  the  angel's  breath, 
Till  my  brow  grows  damp  with  the  dews  of  death^ 
Till  the  life-dream  fades,  with  its  mystic  spell) 
And  the  strains  of  a  deeper  music  swell :; 
I  would  hear  it  then  'mid  the  seraph- throng, 
The  glorious  voice  of  the  Soul  of  Song. 


"WHO    ARE    THE    BLEST?" 


"WHO    ARE    THE    BLEST?" 

"Wno  are  the  blest?"  said  a  little  child, 
A  thing  so  fair  that  the  angels  smiled, 
As  he  knelt  him  down,  with  an  artless  grace, 
And  a  holy  light  on  his  meek,  young  face, 
When  the  dreamy  shades  of  the  twilight  dim 
Had  hushed  his  voice  to  a  low,  glad  hymn, 
And  stilled  the  gush  of  his  childish  glee, 
To  say  his  prayer  hy  his  mother's  knee. 

"Who  are  the  blest?"  and  the  earnest  eyes, 

In  the  tender  glow  of  the  twilight  skies, 

In  the  holy  hush  of  that  sabbath  night, 

Grew  deeper  still,  with  a  wondrous  light, 

And  he  looked  away  through  the  pensive  gloom, 

That  settled  down  o'er  the  cottage-room, 

Till  his  glance  beamed  bright,  with  a  strange  unrest, 

The  yearning  gaze  of  the  early  blest. 

"The  blest,  my  boy?"  and  the  mother  smiled, 
And  her  heart  went  out  to  her  sinless  child, 
And  her  eye  grew  dim  and  her  voice  grew  low, 
As  she  pushed  the  curls  from  his  fair  broad  brow ; 
For  she  thought  of  his  sweet  and  quiet  ways, 
And  turned  away  from  the  questioning  gaze, 
And  the  answer  fell  from  her  lips  apart, 
"The  blest,  my  boy,  are  the  pure  in  heart !" 


"WHO   ARE   THE   BLEST? 


61 


u* 


"  The  pure  in  heart !"  and  she  bowed  her  head, 
And  very  sweet  were  the  words  she  said, 
How  the  Saviour  would  love  her  precious  child, 
If  he  was  pleasant  and  meek  and  mild, 
And  the  waves  of  the  crystal  river  of  joy 
Should  flow  to  the  heart  of  her  own  little  boy — 
Then  his  warm,  soft  cheek  to  her  own  she  prest, 
And  told  him  a  story  about  the  blest. 

Closer  she  folded  the  little  one, 

And  talked  to  him  long  in  a  quiet  tone, 

Of  the  glorious  light  of  the  City  of  God, 

Of  the  golden  streets  and  the  pavement  broad, 

Till  the  long  lids  drooped  o'er  the  wondering  eyes, 

And  shut  out  the  light  of  their  soft  surprise, 

And  he  slept  on  her  bosom  and  dreamed  the  rest, 

Of  the  beautiful  story  about  the  blest. 

'Tis  Sabbath  eve— through  the  open  door 
The  moonbeams  fall  on  the  cottage  floor, 
In  the  dreamy  hush  of  the  silver  light 
The  mother  is  sitting  alone  to  night ! 
Her  meek  heart  bows  as  she  lifts  her  eyes, 
And  looks  away  to  the  burning  skies, 
And  a  deep  joy  steals  to  her  tranquil  breast, 
For  the  child  she  hath  loved  is  with  the  blest. 


62 


.  AN    AUTUMN    REVE.RIE. 


AN   AUTUMN   KEYEKIE. 

I  LOVE  the  faint  and  dreamy  haze, 
That  foldeth  in  the  autumn  days. 

I  wander  from  the  Babel  din, 
And  drink  the  mellow  sunshine  in. 

It  stills  my  throbbing  heart's  unrest, 
A  pleasant  sadness  fills  my  breast. 

I  sit  beneath  the  rustling  trees 
And  listen  to  the  whispering  breeze. 

Half  mournfully  it  talks  to  me, 
Of  all  that  was  and  will  not  be. 

Through  the  dim  years  I  look  away, 
I  'm  with  my  sisters  now  at  play. 

We  're  in  the  grand,  old  chestnut  grove, 
The  place  that  most  of  all  we  love. 

We  're  looking  upward,  one  and  all, 
And  at  our  feet  the  brown  nuts  fall. 


We  shout  aloud,  How  beautiful ! 
And  fill  our  tiny  aprons  full. 


AN    AUTUMN    REVERIE. 


Upon  the  green  grass,  side  by  side, 
The  gathered  store  we  now  divide. 

The  grove  rings  with  our  laughter  wild, 
How  sweet  it  is  to  be  a  child ! 

The  spell  is  o'er — the  dream  has  flown, 
I  Jm  sitting  silent  and  alone. 

Mine  eyes  are  swimming  now  in  tears, 
I  turn  me  from  those  olden  years. 

The  faint  air  fans  my  glowing  cheek ; 
My  heart  is  full — I  cannot  speak. 

The  rapture  of  that  early  bliss, 
Fades  in  the  solemn  joy  of  this. 

Unto  the  outer  world  I  turn, 
And  holy  lessons  here  I  learn. 

The  crimson  of  these  maple  trees, 
'T  is  like  the  flush  of  fell  disease. 

The  withered  leaves  that  downward  fall, 
They  'mind  me  of  the  shroud  and  pall. 

The  blue  of  these  autumnal  skies, 
It  makes  me  think  of  Paradise. 


DEATH. 


The  glory  of  these  autumn  days, 
It  fills  my  thankful  heart  with  prais 

I  kneel  me  down  upon  the  sod, 
And  pour  it  in  the  ear  of  God, 


DEATH. 

DEATH  is  the  shutting  of  a  flower, 
The  closing  of  a  mournful  hour, 
The  paling  of  a  coral  lip, 
The  hushing  of  a  bounding  step, 
The  dimming  of  a  starry  eye, 
The  severing  of  a  mystic  tie, 
The  breaking  of  a  brittle  thread, 
The  robing  for  a  narrow  bed, 
The  bursting  of  the  bonds  of  sin, 
The  going  out,  the  entering  in, 
The  ending  of  a  fearful  strife, 
The  dawning  of  immortal  life  ! 

Death  is  the  interval  between 
The  visible  and  the  unseen — 
The  pale  and  mystic  realm  that  lies 
Between  our  world  and  Paradise. 
Death  is  the  triumph  hour  of  all 
Who  wait  to  hear  the  Master's  call, 


RURAL    LIFE. 


65 


The  laying  of  the  armor  down, 
The  putting  on  the  victor's  crown, 
The  finale  of  the  things  that  be, 
The  sunrise  of  eternity ! 
The  ceasing  of  the  tempter's  sway, 
The  Christian's  Coronation-day ! 

How  blest,  how  beautiful,  the  faith 
That  falters  not  in  view  of  Death ! 
That  lifts  the  trembling,  sinking  soul, 
And  points  it  to  the  dazzling  goal, 
That  throws  a  halo  o'er  the  tomb, 
And  gives  a  glory  to  its  gloom — 
That  looks  beyond  the  threatening  tide, 
Sees  Heaven's  glad  portals  opening  wide, 
Sees  the  strong  hand  reached  out  to  save, 
Clasps  it,  and  triumphs  o'er  the  grave ! 
On  the  soul's  altar  glows  the  fire, 
The  heavenly  hope,  the  high  desire, 
The  pure,  the  bright,  celestial  flame, 
That  finds  a  life  in  Jesus'  name. 


KUBAL  LIFE. 

NOT  in  the  princely  palace  home, 
With  stately  walls  and  gilded  dome, 
Where,  through  the  live-long  summer  day, 
The  glad  sunshine  is  veiled  awav, 


RURAL    LIFE. 


Lest  it  should  stream  too  clear  and  bright 

For  eyes  that  shun  the  blessed  light, 

And  like  the  night-unfolding  flowers, 

Gleam  only  in  the  star-lit  hours — 

Not  in  the  lofty  halls  of  pride 

Where  music  floats  at  even-tide, 

Where  gorgeous  lights  are  softly  streaming 

And  jewels  flash  and  pearls  are  gleaming, 

Where  love  finds  speech  in  meaning  glances 

And  low  words  breathe  the  heart's  romances, 

And  song  and  revelry  resound, 

May  peace,  the  spirit's  gem,  be  found. 

Out  in  the  sunshine,  where  the  flowers 
Breathe  perfume  on  the  summer  hours, 
Where  wood-bines  wreathe  the  cottage  eaves, 
And  birds  glance  in  and  out  the  leaves ; 
Out  in  God's  great  and  glorious  world 

Where  rise  the  everlasting  hills, 
Where  broad,  majestic  rivers  roll, 

And  grandeur  all  the  being  fills ; 
Out  in  the  country,  where  the  soul 

Holds  converse  high  with  Nature's  God, 
Scorns  the  vain  world's  unblest  control, 

And  spurns  it  as  the  senseless  clod ; 
Here  taught  by  every  living  thing, 
By  flowers  that  bloom  and  birds  that  sing, 
By  all  around,  about,  above, 
To  glorify  the  God  of  love, 


RURAL    LIFE. 


67 


The  soul  expands,  the  heart  beats  high 
And  pleasure  lights  the  kindling  eye, 
There  breathes  no  sound  of  sin  or  strife, 
And  blessings  crown  the  rural  life. 

What  though  no  proud  and  costly  dome 
Towers  o'er  the  farmer's  rustic  home, 
What  though  his  ample  brow  is  tanned, 
And  brown  and  hard  his  honest  hand, 
The  song  of  birds,  the  breath  of  flowers, 
Make  poetry  of  his  toiling  hours, 
And  when  the  golden  sheaves  are  bound, 

When  song  and  sunshine  fade  away, 
And  full  and  clear  the  harvest  moon 

Shuts  softly  out  the  dying  day ; 
When  night  comes  o'er  the  quiet  skies 

And  stars  light  up  the  azure  dome, 
With  peaceful  heart  and  cheerful  step, 

He  hies  him  to  his  happy  home. 
Young,  bird-like  voices,  sweet  and  clear, 
Breathe  music  on  his  list'ning  ear, 
He  feels  the  soft  and  downy  clasp 

Of  tiny  arms  around  his  neck, 
A  fragrant  breath  is  on  his  brow 

And  close  to  his  a  velvet  cheek. 
Now  seated  'mid  his  little  throng, 

His  youngest  prattler  on  his  knee, 
His  other  jewels  clustered  round, 

What  monarch  is  more  blest  than  he ! 


RURAL    LIFE. 


Oh,  ye  who  scorn  the  sons  of  toil, 

The  earnest,  noble,  mighty  men, 
Whose  brown  hands  till  the  grateful  soil, 

Whose  homes  are  in  the  vale  and  glen ; 
Oh,  ye  who  pass  him  proudly  by, 

Whose  broad  brow  bears  the  seal  divine, 
Because,  forsooth,  he  hath  not  bowed, 

A  worshipper  at  Fashion's  shrine ! 
Go  forth  into  the  pleasant  fields, 

When  early  wakes  the  rosy  morn, 
When  stars  have  set  and  sunrise  gilds 

The  growing  grain  and  rustling  corn ; 
Look  o'er  the  fragrant,  flowery  meads, 

Deep  seas  of  living,  waving  green, 
The  glory  of  the  harvest  hills, 

The  valleys  in  the  distance  seen ; 
And  think  ye  't  was  a  lily  hand 
That  till'd  the  broad  and  beauteous  land  ? 
And  think  ye  one  of  slender  frame, 

Of  sneering  lip  and  haughty  brow, 
Whose  glory  is  a  sounding  name, 

Whose  dainty  fingers  spurn  the  plow, 
Ere  felt  a  joy  more  pure,  more  blest, 
Than  glows  within  the  farmer's  breast  ? 

0  rural  scenes  !  0  summer  hours  ! 
0  sunny  hill-sides  starr'd  with  flowers ! 
0  waving  woodlands,  crystal  streams  ! 
0  bird- songs  rippling  wild  and  free ! 


WATER, 


69 


Ye  float  around  us  in  our  dreams, 

Ye  weave  of  life  a  melody ! 
We  call  them  blest  whose"  pathway  leads 
O'er  velvet  lawns  and  waving  meads, 
Whose  tent  is  pitched,  whose  bower  is  made 
Out  in  the  country's  sylvan  shade, 
Whose  pavement  is  the  green  glad  earth, 

Whose  roof  the  sky  we  daily  see, 
Whose  poems  are  the  rocks  and  hills, 

Whose  music,  Nature's  minstrelsy  ! 
Here  taught  by  all  around,  above, 
To  glorify  the  God  of  love. 
The  soul  expands,  the  heart  beats  high, 
And  pleasure  lights  the  kindling  eye, — 
The  spirit  of  repose  comes  by, — 
There  breathes  no  sound  of  sin  or  strife, 
And  blessings  crown  the  rural  life. 


WATER. 

THERE  is  gladness  in  the  water. 

Beautiful  and  cool  and  clear, 
Welling  from  the  heart  of  Nature, 

For  the  peasant  and  the  peer ; 
Gleaming  in  the  polished  dipper, 

Sparkling  in  the  brimming  glass, 
Flashing  in  the  pleasant  sunshine, 

Winding  through  the  waving  grass ; 


70 


WATER. 


Gushing  from  the  breezy  mountain, 
Babbling  down  the  sylvan  dell, 

Leaping  from  fhe  crystal  fountain, 
Bubbling  from  the  mossy  well. 

There  is  beauty  in  the  water, 

There  is  life  and  health  and  joy, 
Beauty  for  the  dark-eyed  daughter, 

Gladness  for  the  red-cheeked  boy ; 
Springing  step  and  graceful  motion, 

Wild  and  airy,  free  and  light, 
Glowing  face  and  bounding  pulses, 

Dancing  eyes  forever  bright, 
It  will  give  you,-  oh  the  water, 

Bubbling  beauty,  gurgling  joy ! 
Beauty  for  the  dark-eyed  daughter, 

Gladness  for  the  red^cheeked  boy. 

There  is  music  in  the  water, 

Music  in  its  singing  tide, 
In  its  clear  and  crystal  beauty, 

Kippling  down  the  mountain's  side ; 
There  is  music  in  its  gushing, 

There  is  rhythm  in  its  flow, 
Gliding  through  the  quiet  valleys, 

With  a  murmur  glad  and  low ; 
In  the  meadows  softly  walking, 

With  its  cool  and  blessed  feet, 
Through  the  forest  softly  talking 

In  a  whisper  hushed  and  sweet. 


WATER. 


71 


There  is  healing  in  the  water 

Welling  from  the  limpid  spring 
Stainless  in  its  flowing  freedom, 

Health  and  blessedness  it  brings ; 
Tuning  all  the  spirit's  music 

To  the  gladness  of  its  strains, 
Sending  back  the  purple  life-tide, 

Bounding,  circling  through  the  veins. 
Oh,  the  healing  of  the  water, 

Fresh  and  sparkling  from  the  spring ! 
'T  is  the  soul  of  life  and  beauty, 

'T  is  a  pure  and  blessed  thing ! 

There  is  blessing  in  the  water — 

Blessing  in  its  silver  flow, 
Whispering  through  the  waving  woodlands, 

Where  the  tasseled  birches  grow ; 
In  the  sunshine,  in  the  shadow, 

Winding  through  the  velvet  grass, 
In  the  large,  old-fashioned  dipper, 

In  the  dainty  modern  glass ; 
Gushing  from  the  breezy  mountain, 

Singing  down  the  sylvan  dell, 
Leaping  from  the  crystal  fountain, 

Bubbling  from  the  mossy  well. 


72 


THE    SABBATH. 


THE    SABBATH. 

HAIL,  blessed  Sabbath  !  season  sweet 
Of  rest  to  weary  mortals  given, 

When  Christians  kneel  at  Jesus'  feet, 
And  all  of  earth  seems  lost  in  Heaven ! 

The  children  of  the  Saviour  love 

This  holy,  consecrated  day, 
A  beacon  from  the  land  above, 

To  guide  them  in  the  narrow  way. 

The  bells  have  rung,  and  gently  now 
The  voice  of  prayer  ascends  on  high, 

Scarce  uttered — yet  though  soft  and  low, 
Borne  up  beyond  the  deep  blue  sky. 

A  tranquil  awe — a  silence  deep — 
Reigns  in  its  blessedness  abroad ; 

The  great  world's  strife  is  hushed  to  sleep, 
And  millions  bow  to  worship  God. 

0  solemn  Sabbath !  who  shall  dare 
Profane  thy  soul-subduing  rest  ? 

Mock  at  the  songs  of  praise  and  prayer, 
Or  scorn  the  glory  of  the  blest ! 

The  breathings  of  the  "  still,  small  voice  " 
Seem  speaking  to  the  peaceful  soul, 

Of  the  fair  land  where  saints  rejoice, 
And  endless  Sabbaths  onward  roll. 


THE    DYING    INFANT. 


73 


God  of  the  Sabbath !  while  we  kneel 
With  lowly  hearts  before  Thy  throne, 

Thyself,  in  pard'ning  love,  reveal, 
And  kindly  seal  us  all  thine  own ! 


THE    DYING   INFANT. 

How  still  it  lies !  how  calm  its  sweet  repose ! 
How  gently  now  the  weary  eyelids  close ! 
How  faintly  beats  the  little  fluttering  heart ! 
The  sinless  spirit  struggles  to  depart. 
The  death-light  quivers  o'er  the  baby  brow, 
And  paler  grows  its  polished  whiteness  now. 
The  life-light  fades  from  out  the  azure  eyes, 
Mild  as  the  blue  of  fair  Italians  skies. 
Hush !  softer,  fainter  falls  the  feeble  breath, 
Ah !  thou  art  near,  thou  cruel  victor,  DEATH  ! 

Now  all  is  o'er  !  the  gentle  babe  is  dead — 
Cold,  cold  it  lies,  the  spark  of  life  hath  fled  ; 
The  little  heart  is  still  and  pulseless  now, 
The  soft  bright  curls  upon  the  cherub  brow, 
That  shames  the  whiteness  of  his  snowy  shroud, 
Kest  like  the  sunlight  on  a  silver  cloud ; 
The  tiny  hands  are  folded  on  his  breast, 
And  calmly  now  the  little  one  doth  rest, 
As  when  in  life  those  starry  eyes  did  close, 
To  dream  away  the  hours  of  long  repose. 


A     SKELETON. 


Sleep  on,  sweet  babe !  no  more  thou  'It  wake  to  life, 
For  thee  hath  ceased  earth's  sad  and  weary  strife, 
For  thee,  bright  one,  its  loveliness  hath  fled, 
And  thou  art  numbered  with  the  silent  dead ! 
Thy  life  was  short,  yet  gentle  as  the  flower 
Th#t  blooms  to  wither  in  one  fleeting  hour ; 
Thou  wert  a  bud  too  fair  to  nestle  here, 
A  lamb  from  out  the  Saviour's  fold,  too  dear 
To  stray  from  Him,  in  this  cold  world  to  roam, 
His  eye  was  on  thee,  and  He  called  thee  home. 


A  SKELETON  IN  THE  NATIONAL 
HOUSE. 

WHEN  England  set  her  daring  foot 

Unbidden  on  our  strand, 
And  darkling  clouds,  in  gathering  gloom, 

Hung  o'er  our  cherished  land ; 
When  rose  the  loud,  alarum  cry, 

That  woke  a  nation's  rest, 
And  roused  the  bright,  immortal  spark 

Within  the  freeman's  breast ; 

The  spirit  of  our  fathers  burned, 
The  flaming  tide  swelled  high, 

They  pledged,  by  all  that 's  pure,  their  faith, 
To  conquer,  or  to  die ! 


A    SKELETON, 


75 


And  when  the  trumpet's  stirring  peal 
Woke  hill  and  mountain  glen, 

Forth  from  the  field  and  forest  came 
A  host  of  mighty  men. 

The  ploughboy  girded  on  his  sword, 

And  left  his  song  unsung, 
The  music  of  the  woodman's  axe 

Grew  silent  where  it  rung ; 
And  from  a  thousand  humble  homes 

Went  up  frail  woman's  prayer, 
As  fiery-hearted  youth  went  forth 

With  men  oijj^oary  hair. 

Then  rose  the  sound  of  clashing  arms 

From  many  a  blood-red  field, 
And  warmly  down  the  sunlight  flashed 

On  glittering  spear  and  shield ; 
The  waters  of  our  lakes  and  rills 

Were  dyed  with  crimson  stains, 
The  battle-cloud  was  on  our  hills, 

Its  smoke  above  our  plains. 

The  Foeman's  track  was  on  our  shores, 

His  white  sails  on  our  seas, 
And  Albion's  flaming  standard  waved 

Triumphant  in  the  breeze. 
The  black  cloud  darkened  o'er  our  land, 

And  fiercer  grew  the  strife, 
While  from  a  hundred  battle  plains 

Smoked  the  red  tide  of  life. 


76 


A    SKELETON. 


0  Freedom !  't  was  thy  deathless  love 

That  thrilled  the  warrior's  soul, 
That  nerved  with  strength  his  failing  arm 

And  pointed  to  the  goal. 
And  when  the  serried  ranks  grew  thin 

Before  the  driving  shot, 
A  new  fire  lit  his  flashing  eye, 

His  strong  faith  wavered  not. 

A  sudden  glory  shone  around 

The  brow  of  Washington, 
And  clouds  and  darkness  rolled  away 

As  mist  before  the  sup. 
Up  from  the  hills  there  rose  a  shout 

That  made  the  welkin  ring, 
And  our  own  eagle  soared  on  high, 

A  free  and  chainless  thing. 

Forth  from  the  red,  baptismal  sea 

Our  virgin  nation  rose, 
No  shadow  on  her  stainless  soul, 

As  pure  as  mountain  snows ; 
The  glory  of  a  million  lips, 

The  boast  of  Liberty, 
The  wonder  of  a  gazing  world, 

The  watchword  of  the  FREE  ! 

0  Freedom !  thing  so  dearly  bought ! 

Thou  wert — but  thou  art  not ; 
There  festers  in  our  country's  heart 

A  loathsome  canker  spot. 


A    SKELETON. 


And  to  our  burning  cheek  there  comes 
The  crimson  flush  of  shame, 

Since  we,  who  call  our  nation  free, 
But  mock  thy  sacred  name ! 

Beneath  our  very  stars  and  stripes, 

Where  sits  our  stately  bird, 
The  cruel  sound  of  falling  lash 

And  answering  shriek  is  heard. 
Aye,  on  the  storied  fields  of  eld, 

The  consecrated  plains. 
Where  Marion  led  his  gallant  hosts, 

Is  heard  the  clank  of  chains  ! 

We  glory  in  our  equal  rights, 

We  boast  our  righteous  laws, 
We  shout  until  the  vaulted  skies 

Ring  with  our  loud  huzzas  ; 
And  yet,  within  this  lovely  land, 

Where  song  and  shout  resound, 
Goes  up  to  Heaven  the  mournful  wail 

Of  bleeding  brothers  bound. 

Beneath  the  warm  skies  of  the  South, 

Where  groves  of  citron  wave, 
And  spicy  breezes  fan  the  brow, 

They  scourge  the  fettered  slave. 
Wider  the  awful  shadow  spreads, 

In  vain  we  cry  Forbear  ! 
And  tremble  lest  the  demon's  breath 

Should  taint  our  northern  air. 


78 


A    SKELETON. 


We  groan  beneath  no  tyrant's  yoke, 

We  fear  no  foreign  foe, 
With  our  own  fingers  we  have  sown 

The  seed  of  future  woe ; 
A  million  hearts  send  up  the  prayer, 

Avenge  the  hated  wrong  ! 
A  million  voices  lift  the  cry, 

How  long !  0  Lord  !  how  long ! 

0  Slavery  !  thy  blighting  curse 

Hath  sullied  our  fair  fame, 
The  glory  of  our  land  is  dimmed, 

A  stain  is  on  our  name ; 
Oppression's  iron  heel  profanes 

The  soil  our  fathers  trod, 
Our  nation's  burning  sin  invokes 

The  fearful  wrath  of  God. 

Father,  we  bow  low  in  the  dust, 

We  lift  our  hearts  to  thee, 
Strike  from  the  slave  his  galling  chains, 

And  set  the  captive  free ! 
Tear  down  this  false,  unholy  shrine 

And  let  an  altar  rise, 
Where  Freedom's  sacred  fire  shall  burn, 

Eternal  to  the  skies  ! 


THE   CHOLERA. 


79 


THE    CHOLEKA. 

Lo !  on  the  breeze  is  borne  a  mournful  strain, 
A  phantom  dread  hath  crossed  the  heaving  main, 
A  strange,  dark  cloud  hath  shadowed  our  fair  land ! 
The  severed  group,  the  broken  household  band, 
The  lonely  home,  the  desolated  hearth, 
Where  late  was  heard  the  voice  of  song  and  mirth ; 
The  ghastly  corpse,  the  hearse,  the  bier,  the  pall, 
The  grave-like  stillness  brooding  over  all ; 
The  tolling  bell,  the  heart's  unuttered  woe, 
These  mark  the  coming  of  the  dreaded  foe ! 
Strange  words  are  whispered — how  they  chill  the 

heart ! 
Young  lips  grow  white  and  fair  forms  shuddering 

start ; 

From  palace  halls  and  mansions  dark  and  lone, 
Goes  wildly  up  one  deep,  sepulchral  groan ; 
Glad  tones  are  stilled,  cheeks  pale  with  boding  fear, 
The  fearful  scourge,  the  pestilence  is  near  ! 

O'er  the  gay  city  broods  a  mournful  gloom, 
From  the  wide  shadow  of  the  yawning  tomb ! 
Silence  is  in  her  courts :  the  ceaseless  strife, 
The  giddy  whirl,  the  circling  tides  of  life, 
Have  known  a  hush ;  the  lone,  deserted  street 
Echoes  no  more  with  tramp  of  hurrying  feet ; 
A  heavy  pall  each  silent  walk  doth  shroud, 
Where  lately  thronged  the  busy,  bustling  crowd ; 


THE    CHOLEKA. 


At  Fashion's  shrine  young  knees  no  longer  bow, 
And  Pleasure's  haunts  are  sad  and  cheerless  now. 
When  the  calm  night  unfolds  her  starry  wing, 
And  the  pale  moon  shines  forth  a  holy  thing, 
Knees  lowly  bend  that  never  knelt  before, 
And  song  and  revelry  are  heard  no  more. 
Music  hath  lost  its  wild,  "  voluptuous  swell," 
The  mystic  dance  its  fascinating  spell ; 
And  beauty  threads  no  more  the  'wildering  maze, 
'Mid  flashing  lights  and  jewels'  gorgeous  blaze. 

Now  the  fond  mother  bends  above  her  child, 

And  calls  upon  her  God  in  accents  wild, 

The  cherub,  smiling  in  his  cradle  bed, 

Hath  felt  the  touch  of  Death  ;  the  color  fled 

From  the  warm  softness  of  the  rounded  cheek, 

A  tale  of  voiceless  agony  doth  speak 

To  her  who  kneels  beside  the  stricken  form, 

And  bows  in  anguish  to  the  fearful  storm. 

Close  to  her  breast  she  folds  the  writhing  frame, 

Kisses  the  lips  that  strive  to  lisp  her  name ; 

Her  heart  grows  sick,  her  faltering  strength  grows 

weak, 

A  sudden  paleness  settles  on  her  cheek, 
The  cold  sweat  gathers  on  her  death-struck  brow, 
Arid  livid  shadows  chill  its  whiteness  now. 
No  earthly  aid,  no  human  arm  may  save, 
And  child  and  mother  find  one  common  grave 
Is  there  no  power  to  stay  the  pending  doom  ? 
No  might  to  lock  the  portals  of  the  tomb  ? 


THE    CHOLERA. 


O'er  our  fair  country  must  the  deluge  sweep, 
And  leave  the  soul  in  loneliness  to  weep  ? 
From  the  crushed  heart  goes  up  the  piercing  cry, 
As  if 't  would  rend  the  calm,  unheeding  sky. 
Father  of  mercies,  stay  the  avenging  hand, 
And  spare  the  altars  of  our  stricken  land ! 

Dare  we  lift  up  our  hearts  in  holy  prayer, 

And  call  on  God  in  pitying  love  to  spare  ? 

Is  there  no  blush  upon  our  nation's  soul  ? 

O'er  her  fair  spirit  hath  no  shadow  stole  ? 

Have  we  not  cherished  in  our  land  a  foe 

That  "brings  a  darker,  N  direr,  deadlier  woe  ? 

Is  there  no  plague-spot  on  our  nation's  creed, 

Than  e'en  the  blighting  pestilence  more  dread  ? 

A  blot  so  foul,  a  stain  with  sin  so  deep, 

That  o'er  its  blackness  angels  e'en  might  weep ! 

Go  ask  thy  brother,  writhing  'neath  his  chains, 

His  warm  flesh  quivering,  dyed  with  crimson  stains, 

Fears  he  the  shadow  of  the  awful  cloud 

That  wraps  the  mansions  of  the  great  and  proud  ? 

Is  life  to  him  a  sweet  and  pleasant  thing 

To  which  his  heart  in  anxious  hope  doth  cling  ? 

Nay  !  well  we  know  the  cold  and  joyless  grave, 

In  all  its  gloom,  is  welcome  to  the  SLAVE. 

By  the  new  light  within  his  sullen  eye, 

We  know  the  captive  deems  it  blest  to  die. 

Go  ask  the  victim  of  the  withering  blight 

That  shrouds  the  soul  in  one  eternal  night, 

He  who  hath  looked  upon  the  ruby  wine, 


THE    CHOLERA. 


And  bartered  all  that  maketh  man  divine ! 

Will  he  not  tell  thee  of  a  deeper  woe 

Than  e'en  the  stricken,   death-chilled  heart  may 

know  ? 

Mark  well  the  bloodless  cheek  and  sunken  eye — 
Who  bid  him  lay  his  noble  manhood  by  ? 
Weep  o'er  the  wreck  and  mourn  the  bitter  cause, 
Ye  who  profess  to  give  us  righteous  laws. 
;T  was  ye  who  sanctioned  the  unholy  creed, 
That  worked  the  ruin,  wrought  the  fearful  deed. 

Father,  we  bow  beneath  the  chastening  rod, 

Our  proud  hearts  yield,  we  own  once  more  our  God  ; 

With  spirits  humbled  even  to  the  dust, 

We  bless  Thee  now,  and  own  Thy  wrath  as  just. 

Forth  from  the  fiery  furnace,  purged  and  tried, 

A  nation  blest,  a  nation  purified, 

With  contrite  heart  and  lowly  bended  knee, 

Father  of  mercies  now  we  come  to  Thee  J 

Oh,  stay  the  curse  !  withdraw  the  mighty  hand, 

And  smile  once  more  upon  our  stricken  land ! 


LITTLE    HAT  TIE. 


83 


LITTLE    HATTIE. 

THEY  have  told  thee  she  must  die,  mother, 

When  the  summer  roses  bloom, 
They  will  lay  her  sadly,  gently  down, 

In  the  cold  and  silent  tomb. 

There  is  sorrow  on  thy  brow,  mother, 

And  a  tear  is  in  thine  eye, 
For  thy  heart  is  very  sad  to  think 

That  thy  little  one  must  die. 

By  the  angel  seal  that 's  stamped,  mother, 

On  the  baby's  sinless  brow, 
By  the  earnest  light  in  the  starry  eyes, 

That  are  resting  on  thee  now : 

We  know  she  may  not  stay,  mother, 
Through  the  long  bright  summer-hours, 

Aye,  we  know  that  thou  wilt  miss  her  soon, 
From  thy  band  of  infant  flowers. 

When  thy  sweet-voiced,  warbling  bird;  mother, 

Came  fluttering  to  thy  breast, 
Like  a  doveling  to  its  own  soft  home, 

Like  a  wanderer  to  its  rest : 

There  was  joy  in  every  heart,  mother, 
There  was  light  in  every  eye, 


84 


LITTLE     HATTIE. 


For  ye  dreamed  not  that  so  fair  a  thing, 
In  its  loveliness,  would  die. 

When  the  lisping  voice  is  hushed,  mother, 

And  the  cherub-brow  is  cold, 
When  the  little  heart  lies  calm  and  still, 

'Neath  the  death-robe's  snowy  fold : 

When  they  lay  thy  babe  to  rest,  mother, 

In  the  grave  so  lone  and  drear, 
And  the  sorrow-cloud  droops  darkly  down, 

O'er  the  hearts  that  loved  her  here : 

Thou  wilt  feel  her  warm,  sweet  breath,  mother, 

Falling  lightly  on  thy  cheek, 
And  the  loving  little  arms  again, 

Will  be  twined  around  thy  neck. 

Thou  wilt  fold  her  to  thy  heart,  mother, 

As  in  sunny  days  gone  by, 
Ere  the  home  wreath  miss'd  a  tiny  flower, 

Or  the  death-cloud  lingered  nigh. 

But  the  lovely  dream  will  fade,  mother, 

And  the  silent  tear  will  fall ; 
For  thy  little  one  may  wake  no  more 

To  thy  fond  and  loving  call. 

When  the  merry  shout  is  heard,  mother, 
And  the  laugh  rings  wild  and  free, 

Thou  wilt  turn  away  in  speechless  grief, 
They  will  bring  no  joy  to  thee ! 


LITTLE    HAT  TIE. 


85 


Thou  wilt  miss  a  fairy  form,  mother, 
From  the  joyous  household  band, 

And  the  softest  little  star  of  all, 
Will  shine  in  the  better  land. 

Thou  wilt  miss  the  earnest  gaze,  mother, 

Of  the  eyes  so  blue  and  mild, 
And  thy  heart  will  yearn  with  longings  vain, 

For  thy  gentle,  Christ-like  child ! 

I  know  not  why  it  is,  mother, 
That  the  things  we  love  the  most, 

Like  the  fairest  flowers,  are  sure  to  fade, 
And  the  loved  are  soonest  lost. 

She  is  but  a  jewel  lent,  mother, 

The  gem  so  soft  and  fair, 
Is  a  borrowed  one  from  Paradise, 

And  we  know  't  is  wanted  there. 

In  the  land  above  the  stars,  mother, 

Little  Hattie  soon  will  rest. 
She  will  slumber  very  sweetly  there, 

On  the  loving  Saviour's  breast. 

The  glories  of  that  radiant  sky, 

Will  forever  round  her  shine, 
And  her  tears  will  all  be  wiped  away, 

By  a  gentler  hand  than  thine. 


86 


PEACE,     BE    STILL. 


Perchance  long  years  of  woe,  mother, 
May  be  spared  thy  cherished  one } 

For  our  Father  sees  not  as  we  see : 
His  will,  not  ours,  be  done ! 


PEACE,    BE    STILL, 

WHEN  the  Saviour's  "Peace,  be  still," 
Hushed  the  waves  of  Galilee, 

And  a  calm  stole,  like  a  thrill, 
O'er  the  dark  and  surging  sea ; 

When  the  winds  and  waters  slept, 
Cradled  in  the  arms  of  Power, 

There  was  rapture  in  each  heart— 
There  was  blessing  in  the  hour. 

Mortal,  when  the  waves  of  life, 

Like  the  angry  billows,  roll, 
And  the  clouds  of  doubt  and  strife 

Droop,  in  darkness,  o'er  the  soul- — 
Cling  unto  the  cross  of  Christ, 

Bow,  in  meekness,  to  His  will ; 
He  will  hush  thy  heart's  unrest, 

He  will  whisper,  "Peace,  be  still-/' 


THE    BIBLE. 


THE    BIBLE. 

BEAD  it  not  lightly — sacred  glories  shine 

On  every  page  of  the  eternal  book, 
And  visions  bright,  and  mysteries  divine, 

Are  here  revealed  to  those  who  humbly  look, 
And  pray  for  God's  own  Spirit  while  they  read, 
To  give  them  light — light  that  to  Him  shall  lead. 

Kead  it  not  lightly,  ye  who  gaily  tread 

The  halls  where  Fashion  holds  her  princely  sway ; 

The  path  between  the  living  and  the  dead, 
Is  but  a  narrow  and  a  darksome  way. 

Kead  it  not  lightly — it  will  guide  thee  o'er 

The  waves  that  swell  to  the  eternal  shore ! 

Kead  it  not  lightly,  mourner,  who  hast  seen 
The  life-light  fading  from  the  eye  of  love, 

The  death-damp  resting  on  the  brow  serene, 
And  the  soul  longing  for  its  home  above, 

And  groped  in  darkness  'neath  the  cloudless  sun 

That  lit  the  heaven  of  the  dying  one. 

Kead  it  not  lightly,  for  the  voice  of  God 
Will  bring  a  rapture  all  unknown  before, 

And  the  high  soul  shall  spurn  the  senseless  clod, 
And  lift  its  longings  to  that  peaceful  shore, 

Where  grief  comes  not,  nor  Death's  pale  shade,  nor  tears, 

Where  joys  eternal  gild  the  rolling  years. 


THE    BIBLE. 


Kead  it  not  lightly — 't  is  a  lamp  from  Heaven 
To  light  the  glowing  fires  of  Love  and  Faith, 

To  point  the  soul,  by  waves  of  sorrow  driven, 
To  the  fair  land  beyond  the  shades  of  Death  ! 

Oh,  let  the  still,  small  voice  of  God  be  heard, 

Whose  inspiration  stamps  each  burning  word  ! 

Kead  it  not  lightly — when  the  stars  shall  fall, 

And  shining  suns  from  their  high  homes  be  hurled, 

The  Christian's  hope,  triumphant  over  all, 

Shall  stand  unshaken  'mid  "the  crush  of  worlds," 

And  the  freed  soul  shall  rise  supremely  blest, 

And  claim  the  promise  of  an  endless  rest. 

Kead  it  not  lightly — earth  shall  pass  away, 
And  the  fair  heavens  melt  with  fervent  heat, 

Yet  'mid  the  ruins  of  that  awful  day, 

When  waves  of  flame  with  lurid  waves  shall  meet, 

God's  holy  Word,  the  eternal  Truth,  shall  stand, 

Firm,  as  when  written  by  the  inspired  hand. 


-F* 


-be 


MY    LITTLE    NAMESAKE. 


89 


MY   LITTLE    NAMESAKE. 

SHE  's  a  dainty,  blue-eyed  girl 

Made  of  finest  mould, 
Lips  of  rose  and  teeth  of  pearl, 

Hair  of  paly  gold  ; 
Making  olden  hearts  rejoice 
With  hei»ilRr,  warbling  voice, 


Gla 


singing  bird's, 
lalf-uttered  words, 
baby  glee, 
is  she, 


S90 


MY    LITTLE    NAMESAKE. 


Lovingly  her  downy  cheek, 

Nestles  close  to  mine ; 
In  her  glee  she  presses  now, 
Playful  kisses  on  my  brow, 
Oh,  the  warmth  of  her  caress 
Melts  my  soul  to  tenderness ; 
For  the  love  of  such  a  child, 
All  untainted,  undefiled, 

Is  a  thing  divine  ! 

Closer  now  the  tiny  form 

To  my  heart  I  hold, 
Thus  forever  from  the  storm, 

From  the  chilling  cold, 
I  would  shield  this  gentle  dove ; 
For  the  pleading  look  of  love 
In  the  baby  eyes  of  blue, 
Brings  to  mine  the  gathering  dew. 
Holy  as  the  angels  be, 
In  her  sinlessness  is  she, 

Pet  lamb  of  the  fold  ! 


LVa 


OUE    COUNTRY. 


91 


OUR   COUNTRY. 

WRITTEN     JULY     4TH,     1850. 

OUR  country,  we  love  thee !  we  love  thy  green  hills, 
Thy  wide,  rolling  rivers,  and  clear  rippling  rills, 
Thy  rich  summer  sunsets,  the  gay,  gorgeous  dyes, 
That  blend  with  the  blue  of  the  radiant  skies, 
Thy  dark,  waving  forests,  thy  fair,  virgin  soil, 
Where  the  harvest  grows  ripe  for  the  husbandman's  toil, 
Thy  cloud-circled  mountains,  and  broad  arching  sky, 
Thy  glorious  banner,  reared  proudly  on  high ! 

Hail !  hail !  to  the  standard  that  gracefully  waves, 
O'er  the  tombs  of  our  fathers — the  time-honor'd  graves, 
Where  sleep  the  immortal,  the  heroes  of  yore, 
Who  banished  the  foe  from  our  beautiful  shore ! 
Had  the  brave-hearted  yielded,  0  England !   to  thee, 
Would  the  blue  welkin  ring  with  the  songs  of  the  free  ? 
The  voice  of  Oppression,  the  clank  of  her  chain, 
And  the  low  wail  of  Erin  come  over  the  main. 

Oh,  let  us  unite  in  orTiyayer  for  our  land, 
That  the  glorioustta^e  of  Freedom  may  stand, 
That  our  own  pe*ejjfess  eagle  may  lift  its  proud  wing, 
Unscathed  and^Tnshackled— a  fetterless  thing, 
That  the  boom  of  the  cannon,  the  shout  loud  and  long, 
0  loved  Independence !  may  blend  with  thy  song — 
That  our  beautiful  banner  triumphant  may  wave, 
O'er  lovely  Columbia,  land  of  the  brave ! 


GONE     UP    HIGHER. 


GONE    UP    HIGHER. 

A  Tribute  to  the  memory  of  HIRAM  S.  POMEROY,  who  died  at  Fort 
Edward  Institute,  the  8th  of  May,  1855. 

THE  hush  of  Death  hath  been  upon  our  hearts ! 
The  still  deep  hush,  the  mournful,  solemn  awe, 
Yea,  it  hath  been  with  us,  and  we  have  wept ! 
Ours  was  a  perfect  chain — no  link  was  gone 
To  note  the  entrance  of  the  dreaded  foe, 
And  at  the  morning  sacrifice  't  was  blest, 
'T  was  beautiful,  to  bow  before  the  throne, 
And  thank  our  Father  for  the  tender  love 
That  yet  preserved  us  all.     We  saw  not  then 
The  shadow  of  the  dark  and  viewless  wing 
That  hovered  o'er  us,  and  as  thus  we  met 
Unsevered,  our  full  hearts  gave  praise  to  God, 
And,  with  a  child-like  trust,  we  dared  to  hope 
It  might  thus  ever  be,  that  we  in  peace 
Might  thus  together  dwell  a  love-united  band. 

The  days  and  weeks  past  on !    The  spring-time  came 
With  dreamy  skies  and  sunsets  soft,  and  clouds 
That  lay  like  islands  in  a  tranquil  sea, 
With  singing  streams,  and  flash  of  waters  bright, 
With  springing  flowers,  and  melody  of  birds, 
And  all  the  voices  sweet  that  thrill  the  soul, 
And  make  the  young  heart  glad.    Then  came  a  change — 


GONE    UP    HIGHER. 


93 


Whose  soul  was  filled  with  melody,  whose  heart 
Was  tuned  to  love — one  with  a  gay,  glad  voice, 
The  music  of  an  aged  father's  soul, 
A  smile  the  sunshine  of  a  mother's  heart, 
One  with  the  spirit  pure  and  meek  of  Him, 
The  Father's  lowly  Son,  drooped  suddenly, 
And  mournfully  the  word  came  to  our  ears, 
That  he  would  die  ! 

In  the  first  flush  of  youth 
When  the  clear  eye  had  learned  a  deeper  light 
From  high  communion  with  the  Soul  of  thought, 
And  the  glad  face  was  eloquent  with  bliss, 
When  life  was  radiant  with  a  thousand  charms, 
And  the  warm  heart  swelled  high  with  glowing  hope, 
And  brilliant  dreams  had  wreathed  a  syren  spell 
With  which  to  bind  the  future — must  he  die  ? 


Oh,  there  were  sighs  an 
Of  those  who  witched  a 


and  the  wrung  hearts 
fl%  dying  one, 

And  saw  the  shadows  stealing  o'er  his  face, 
And  knew  the  silver  cord  must  soon  be  loosed, 
Were  bowed  in  agony  of  prayer  to  Him 
Whose  breath  alone  might  raise  the  sufF'rer  up ; 
That  if  it  were  His  will,  the  cup  might  pass. 
In  the  deep  silence  of  the  holy  night, 
When  the  still  stars  looked  down  with  angel  eyes, 
When  earth  had  lulled  her  weary  heart  to  rest, 
And  all  was  hushed  and  fair,  the  summons  came ! 
O'er  the  loved  form  an  aged  father  bent,   * 
And  who  may  tell  the  woe,  too  deep  for  tears, 
That  settled  down  upon  his  stricken  soul, 


As,  in  its  mournfulness,  the  truth  would  come, 
That  Death  was  near !  Yea,  near  to  hush  the  voice 
Whose  sound  was  music  to  his  listening  ears, 
To  pale  the  brow,  to  still  the  throbbing  heart, 
To  chill  and  freeze  the  circling  tide  of  life, 
To  steal  the  sunshine  of  his  soul  away, 
And  veil  it  in  the  grave  ! 

She  too  was  there — 

She  who  had  taught  the  childish  knees  to  bend, 
And  the  low  voice  to  lisp  the  name  of  Jesus ! 
When  in  the  beauty  of  his  boyhood's  years, 
Her  lips  had  breathed  the  story  of  the  cross, 
And  she  had  talked  of  Him,  the  Crucified ; 
Until  her  voice  grew  tremulous  and  low. 
Perchance  as  she  had  marked  the  earnest  gaze, 
The  troubled,  thoughtful  look,  the  silent  tear, 
Stealing  unbidden  down  the  lifted  face, 
And  watched  the  dawning  of  each  infant  thought, 
A  voice  had  whispered  to  her  heart,  that  he, 
The  child  she  loved,  should  sound  the  gospel  trump, 
And  spread  the  tidings  of  great  peace  and  joy. 
Perchance  her  soul,  in  its  deep  love,  had  yearned 
To  see  her  boy  go  forth,  his  armor  on, 
And  girded  for  the  great  and  fearful  strife, 
With  the  high  seal  of  God  upon  his  brow, 
A  flaming  herald  of  the  cross  of  Christ ! 

'T  was  but  a  dream — a  vision  of  the  soul 
Cherished  and  beautiful,  held  in  her  heart 
With  the  deep  joy  a  mother's  heart  may  know, 
Yet  born  to  pass  away,  penciled  to  fade. 


GONE    UP    HIGHEK. 


And  now  the  mother  felt  that  he  must  die  ! 

Yet  there  is  balm  for  even  wounds  like  these ; 

Life  knows  no  grief  the  Saviour  may  not  heal. 

The  mourner  leaned  not  on  a  broken  reed  ; 

And  in  that  hour  of  deep  and  voiceless  woe, 

The  stricken  soul  drew  nearer  to  the  throne, 

And  the  pierc'd  heart  found  strength  and  grace  to  say, 

Thy  will,  0  God,  be  done  ! 

Glory  was  there  ! 

Yea,  glory  in  the  heart  of  him  that  died, 
And  glory  on  his  face,  and  in  his  words, 
As  the  rapt  soul  looked  up,  with  faith's  clear  eye, 
And  gathered,  from  the  dawning  light  of  Heaven, 
A  gleam,  so  blest,  of  that  celestial  land — 
A  new-born  joy,  so  fraught  with  love  divine, 
That  e'en  the  trembling  strings  of  life  must  break ! 
Gently,  as  when  a  star  fades  from  the  blue, 
And  melts  away,  in  the  still  morning  light ; 
Sweetly,  as  when  a  blest  and  thrilling  strain 
Floats  in  its  softness  on  the  quiet  air, 
And  fainter  grows,  until  it  dies  away, 
That  morning  sun  went  down — that  spirit-lyre 
Was  hushed,  and  the  glad  music  stilled  for  aye. 

The  morning  dawned,  and  with  it  came  a  hush — 

A  silent  shadow  on  the  careless  heart ; 

And  the  bright  smile  was  banished  for  the  tear, 

And  tones  were  smothered  and  young  steps  grew  light, 

And  the  glad  echo  of  the  merry  voice 

Sounded  no  more,  in  freedom,  through  the  halls, 


GONE    UP    HIGHER. 


For  one  had  passed  away,  and  all  were  sad. 

A  weary,  mournful  day,  a  long  and  silent  night, 

And  the  cold  clay,  so  beautiful  in  death, 

Was  robed  and  coffined  for  the  voiceless  tomb. 

Gently  they  bore  him  to  his  long,  long  rest ! 

Where  the  winds  sigh  amid  the  tassel' d  trees, 

And  young  flowers  breathe  their  fragrance  on  the  air, 

Where  bird-songs  trill  above  the  pleasant  graves, 

And  the  long  grass,  with  many  a  shadowy  wave, 

Springs,  in  its  softness,  from  the  grateful  earth, 

And  weaves  a  carpet  for  the  mourner's  tread, 

They  laid  him  down  to  sleep  !      Then  with  bowed 

hearts, 

And  tears,  our  broken  band  drew  near,  to  bring 
Their  offering  sweet,  of  early  budding  flowers, 
The  gracious  tokens  of  a  Father's  love, 
And  drop  them  gently  in  our  brother's  grave. 
Oh  't  was  a  solemn  hour,  and  many  a  heart 
That  ne'er  had  known  the  quiet,  inborn  joy, 
The  peace  and  glory  of  the  wondrous  love 
That  shed  a  halo  over  Jordan's  waves, 
That  took  away  the  sting — the  fear  of  Death, 
And  made  it  blest  and  beautiful  to  die, 
Was  awed  and  softened  by  the  holy  spell 
That  lingered  round  the  portals  of  the  tomb. 
Death  was  the  gate — the  vestibule  of  Heaven  ; 
And  though  we  saw  the  cold  and  lifeless  form, 
And  gaz'd,  in  sorrow,  on  the  once  glad  face, 
Kigid  and  passionless,  we  know  he  lives  ! 
'T  was  the  frail  dust  they  laid  away  to  rest, 


THE    SPIRIT. 


Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  whispering  trees  ; 
The  soul — the  deathless — the  immortal  part, 
That  gave  such  beauty,  to  its  earthly  home, 
Lives  with  its  God,  and  bathes  its  tireless  wing 
In  the  glad  sunshine  of  eternal  love  ! 
With  angels,  now,  he  bows  before  the  throne  ; 
The  gushing  voice,  tuneless  and  hushed  to  us, 
Blends  with  the  sweetness  of  the  seraph's  song, 
And  swells  the  chorus  of  the  anthem  high, 
Chanted,  in  rapture,  by  the  blood-washed  throng. 
No  night  is  there,  nor  sun,  nor  moon,  nor  stars, 
But  God's  own  glory  is  the  light  thereof; 
And  He,  Himself,  shall  wipe  all  tears  away ! 
Call  we  our  band  a  broken  one  to-night  ? 
Yes,  we  are  here,  and  there  is  one  in  Heaven  ! 

'T  is  well 

The  grave  hath  hid  the  sunshine  of  his  face, 
And  the  clear  gaze  of  those  deep  eyes  is  veiled 
Forever,  yet  again  we  say,  'T  is  WELL  ! 


THE    SPIKIT. 

WHAT  is  the  spirit  ?  't  is  the  mystic  thing 
That  gives  a  glory  to  the  speaking  face, 
That  prints,  upon  the  brow,  a  heavenly  trace, 

And  lends  the  senseless  clay  a  seraph's  wing  ; 
Something  immortal,  reaching  to  the  skies, 
Whose  source  is  God — whose  goal  is  Paradise  ! 


[       98    WHO    WOULD    NOT    DIE    TO    LIVE    AGAIN? 


WHO    WOULD    NOT    DIE   TO   LIVE 
AGAIN? 

I  SAW  a  fair  and  lovely  child, 

With  eyes  of  heaven's  softest  blue 

A  form  of  sweet  "bewitching  grace, 
A  heart  that  ne'er  a  sorrow  knew. 

With  lightsome  step  she  hounded  on, 
And  garlanding  the  dewy  flowers, 

She  twined  them  'mid  her  sunny  curls, 
And  danced  away  the  golden  hours. 

Again  I  looked — the  scene  was  changed  ; 

Those  soft  blue  eyes  were  gently  closed, 
And  still  and  cold,  in  Death's  embrace, 

That  fair  and  child-like  form  reposed. 

The  silken  curls  were  smoothly  laid, 
From  off  the  brow  serenely  white, 

While  round  the  pale  and  waxen  lips, 
There  played  a  smile  divinely  bright. 

Beside  the  gentle  sleeper's  couch, 
A  mother  stood,  with  tearful  eye, 

She  saw  the  casket  of  her  gem, 
The  jewel  sparkled  far  on  high. 

Upon  the  fair  and  sinless  brow, 
She  prest  one  fervent  kiss  of  love, 


THE    DREAM. 


And  then,  in  broken  accents,  sighed, 

"  My  flower  but  droops  to  bloom  above." 

I  turned  away — borne  on  the  breeze, 
Methought  I  heard  a  rapturous  strain, 

And  angel  voices  seemed  to  ask, 

"  Who  would  not  die  to  live  again  ?" 


THE    DREAM. 

METHOUGHT  I  stood  in  a  lordly  hall, 

Where  'wildering  splendors  shone, 
And  light  feet  tripp'd  to  the  rapturous  swell 

Of  music's  heavenly  tone  ; 
Soft  love  was  stealing  from  soul-lit  orbs, 

In  glances  divinely  bright, 
And  coral  lips  were  witchingly  wreathed, 

With  smiles  of  radiant  light. 

The  ruby  gleamed  and  the  diamond  flashed, 

On  many  a  queenly  brow, 
And  the  silvery  laugh  went  floating  by, 

In  cadence  gentle  and  low ; 
The  glorious  voice  of  song  went  up, 

From  those  halls  so  gay  and  proud, 
And  happiness  seemed  to  reign  that  night, 

In  the  heart  of  the  dazzling  crowd. 


THE    DKEAM. 


The  sylpli-like  form  and  the  airy  tread, 

Moved  on  in  the  mystic  dance, 
A  scene  so  bright  I  had  never  met, 

And  stood  in  a  breathless  trance, 
When  one  I  saw,  'mid  the  giddy  throng, 

With  a  pale  brow,  broad  and  high, 
With  a  lip  whose  smile  was  eloquent, 

And  a  dark  and  speaking  eye : 

Her  floating  robe  was  of  virgin  white, 

No  gem  'mid  her  tresses  gleamed, 
The  light  of  truth,  on  her  peerless  brow, 

With  a  quiet  luster  beamed ; 
And  lo !  as  I  gazed,  the  bright  throng  paused, 

That  radiant  form  drew  nigh, 
And  the  words  that  fell  from  her  parted  lips 

Were  soft  as  the  zephyr's  sigh  ! 

"  Mortal,  thinkest  thou  the  angel  of  Peace 

Hath  folded  her  pinion  here  ? 
That  dark  eyes,  flashing  so  proudly  now, 

Ne'er  harbor  the  pearly  tear  ? 
Ah  !  many  a  heart  with  anguish  beats, 

'Neath  a  gay  and  costly  robe, 
And  the  silver  wreath  oft  graces  a  brow 

That  burns  with  a  painful  throb. 

Then  go  thy  way,  with  a  wiser  heart, 

Nor  seek  for  happiness  here, 
Not  all  the  gorgeous  glitter  of  wealth 

May  purchase  a  thing  so  dear. 


TO    THE    STABS. 


101 


The  light  of  a  joyous  soul  may  seem 
From  the  'witching  glance  to  dart, 

But  a  robe  of  smiles  is  often  worn 
To  cover  a  broken  heart." 

Those  silvery  tones  then  died  away, 

That  glorious  form  was  gone ; 
She  floated  off,  like  a  vision  of  light — 

The  song  and  the  dance  went  on. 
I  turned  away  from  that  princely  hall, 

The  lesson  was  taught  me  there, 
That  the  heart  oft  swells  with  a  bursting  grief, 

When  the  lip  a  smile  doth  wear. 


TO   THE    STABS. 

SOFT  lights  that  gem  yon  cloudless  sky, 

Blest  with  the  glorious  power 
To  chain  the  soaring  soul  on  high, 

At  evening's  solemn  hour  ; 
To  break  the  strange,  mysterious  spell, 

That  darkly  binds  us  here, 
And  lift  the  burden  of  our  dreams, 

Up  to  the  shining  sphere ; 
Ye  fan  the  native  fires  of  thought 

Unto  one  brilliant  flame, 
And  teach  the  adoring  heart  to  praise 

The  mighty  Maker's  name. 


102 


TO    THE    STARS. 


Oh,  when  at  eve,  my  lifted  eyes 

Drink  in  the  starry  light, 
Wild  longings  in  my  soul  arise — 

Dreams  beautiful  and  bright ! 
I  hear  the  swelling  hymn  of  old, 

When  shouts  of  glory  rang, 
When  angels  hailed  Creation's  morn, 

And  ye  together  sang. 
A  hush  comes  o'er  me,  and  I  kneel 

Upon  the  dewy  sod, 
And  pour  my  heart's  deep  worship  out, 

In  voiceless  prayer,  to  G-od. 

Held  in  a  rapt  and  breathless  trance, 

Before  the  eternal  throne, 
I  strive  to  teach  my  stam'ring  lip 

One  strong  and  mighty  tone  ! 
The  power  to  breathe  the  "  words  that  burn," 

Hath  never  yet  been  mine  ; 
And  though,  at  times,  my  soul  hath  caught 

A  ray  of  light  divine, 
From  proud  Expression's  peerless  star, 

Yet  soon  the  spell  is  o'er, 
Deep  thought  retires  within  itself 

And  finds  a  voice  no  more. 


OUR    ANGEL. 


103 


OUK  ANGEL. 

WE  called  her  Angel,  for  the  light 

That  shone  in  her  soft  eyes 
Had  something  in  its  hue  of  Heaven — 

THe  sweet  look  of  the  skies ; 
And  ever  on  her  gentle  lips 

There  played  a  quiet  smile, 
As  if  some  thought  of  holiness 

Were  in  her  heart  the  while. 

Our  world,  with  all  its  loveliness, 

Hath  many  mournful  things, 
And  when  our  Angel  noticed  this 

She  plumed  her  viewless  wings ; 
There  came  a  spell  upon  her  soul, 

A  shadow  on  her  face, 
And  oftener  we  saw  her  kneel 

Before  the  throne  of  grace. 

She  watched  the  moving  of  the  cloud 

That  "broods  above  our  land, 
She  saw  the  severed  household  chain, 

The  broken  household  band ; 
She  saw  the  great  and  gifted  bow 

Low  at  the  tempter's  shrine — 
The  glory  of  the  god-like  mind 

Quenched  in  the  sparkling  wine. 


104 


OUR    ANGEL. 


To  him  who  won  her  early  love, 

She  saw  the  pale  wife  cling, 
She  saw  him  spurn  the  broken  heart, 

A  crushed  and  bleeding  thing ; 
And  then  our  Angel's  brow  grew  pale, 

Her  bounding  step  grew  slow, 
Her  voice,  of  melting  melody, 

Grew  very  soft  and  low. 

Her  eyes — those  deep  and  wondrous  eyes — 

Grew  eloquent  with  tears, 
We  watched  her  jealously  the  while, 

And  strove  to  hush  our  fears  ; 
But  when  we  asked  her  why  her  voice 

Had  lost  its  olden  song, 
Our  Angel,  meekly  smiling,  said, 

"  I  may  not  tarry  long." 

We  tried  to  win  her  from  the  skies — 

We  searched  the  woodland  bowers, 
And  threaded  wild,  untrodden  paths, 

To  bring,  for  her,  the  flowers  ; 
We  garlanded  the  holy  things, 

And  bound  them  on  her  brow, 
And  softly  said,  within  our  hearts, 

"  She'll  fold  her  pinions  now." 

But  fainter  grew  her  quiet  smile, 
And  feebler  grew  her  tone, 


EARTH'S  TRIUMPH  HOURS. 


105 


And  holier,  in  its  loveliness, 
The  light  that  round  her  shone. 

One  day,  she  folded  her  thin  hands. 
And  closed  her  weary  eyes, 

And  then  our  Angel  fell  asleep, 
And  woke  in  Paradise. 


EAKTH'S   TKIUMPH   HOUKS. 

A    VALEDICTORY     POEM. 

EARTH  hath  for  all  her  triumph  hours, 

Some  radiant  with  joy  and  light, 
When  brows  are  garlanded  with  flowers, 

And  gay,  glad  smiles  are  beaming  bright, 
And  some  known  by  the  kindling  eye, 

The  changing  cheek's  o'ermantling  glow, 
The  bound  of  pulses  beating  high, 

The  life-tide's  quick,  tumultuous  flow. 

They  bless  the  lowly  and  the  great — 

They  come  where  hearts,  in  meekness,  bow, 
Where  proud  forms  sit  in  regal  state, 

And  jewel'd  splendors  grace  the  brow  ; 
The  little  child,  the  strong,  brave  man, 

The  mighty  monarch  on  his  throne, 
The  warrior  in  the  army's  van, 

Each  hath  some  hour  of  triumph  known. 


EARTH'S  TRIUMPH  HOURS. 


When  the  first  fall  of  tiny  feet 

Makes  music  on  the  cottage  floor, 
And  young  lips  breathe,  in  lispings  sweet, 

The  words  they  ne'er  have  said  before, 
The  dawning  of  a  glad  surprise, 

The  sudden  glow  of  conscious  power, 
Lights  up  the  large  and  wondrous  eyes, 

And  marks  the  baby's  triumph  hour. 

In  the  first  flush  of  early  youth, 

When  life  with  rainbow-dreams  is  fraught, 
And  childhood's  bold  and  fearless  truth 

Is  blent  with  manhood's  earnest  thought ; 
The  grasping  of  some  high  desire, 

The  reaching  of  some  lofty  goal, 
Kindles  to  life  the  electric  fire 

That  glows  within  the  daring  soul. 

The  man  of  bearing  high  and  proud, 

Whose  voice,  one  wave  of  minstrelsy, 
Sweeps  forth,  until  the  breathless  crowd 

Sways  like  the  vast  and  surging  sea, 
Feels,  in  his  heart,  the  rising  flame, 

The  power  the  restless  throng  to  bind, 
And  flushing  cheek  and  brow  proclaim 

The  triumph  of  a  master-mind. 

When  Genius,  to  her  favored  child, 
Some  rich,  exulting  strain  hath  taught, 

And  Poesy  breathes,  in  numbers  wild, 
The  language  of  the  burning  thought, 


EARTH'S  TRIUMPH  HOURS. 


107  IB 


A  rapture  all  the  being  fills, 

The  broad  brow  hath  a  gladder  grace, 
The  pale  cheek  glows,  the  high  heart  thrills, 

And  triumph  glorifies  the  face. 

The  warrior  ff  om  the  field  of  strife, 

To  whom  the  mighty  nations  bow> 
Feels,  in  his  veins,  the  tide  of  life 

Course  with  a  fuller,  faster  flow, 
When  mingle  song  and  echoing  shout, 

With  silver  strains  and  chime  of  bells, 
And  glad  triumphant  peals  ring  out, 

And  music  on  the  clear  air  swells. 

Loud  peans  to  the  skies  ascend, 

Till  wakes  again  the  broad,  blue  dome, 
Bright  banners  wave,  young  voices  blend, 

And  millions  greet  the  hero  home ; 
Aye,  brave  hearts  leap  and  pulses  thrill 

When  song  and  shout  ring  on  the  breeze ; 
Yet  there  are  conquests  higher  still, 

And  prouder  triumph-hours  than  these  ! 

When  trusting  woman,  cursed  and  spurned, 

Her  heart  a  crushed  and  bleeding  thing, 
In  her  sweet  faith,  hath  meekly  turned 

And  borne  it  all  unmurmuring ; 
When  she  hath  taught  her  soul  to  bow, 

And  gently  hushed  the  rising  sigh, 
A  glory  gilds  the  patient  brow, 

And  triumph  lights  her  earnest  eye. 


108  EARTH'S  TRIUMPH  HOURS. 

When  the  stern  man  hath  breasted  long 

The  waves  of  Passion's  troubled  sea, 
Gained  o'er  his  spirit  proud  and  strong, 

The  pure  and  perfect  mastery ; 
The  thrill  of  that  mysterious  power 

Gives  to  his  heart  a  fuller  swell, 
The  glory  of  his  triumph  hour, 

Not  all  may  know  and  none  may  tell. 

And  thus  they  come,  earth's  triumph-hours, 

Some  that  in  trumpet-tones  have  rung, 
Some  garlanded  with  laurel-flowers, 

And  some  unheralded,  unsung ! 
Perchance  our  hearts  have  felt  to-night, 

The  circling  life-tide's  faster  flow, 
As  standing  on  the  classic  bight, 

We  view  the  meadow-lands  below. 

Those  meadow  lands  !  ah,  they  are  fair, 

Watered  by  Learning's  crystal  rills, 
Waved  by  the  pure  untainted  air, 

Wafted  in  freshness  from  her  hills ! 
Beyond  the  broad  and  billowy  green, 

The  Alpine  bights  of  Science  tower, 
The  student's  goal,  the  sunrise  scene 

Of  many  a  glorious  triumph-hour. 

Classmates,  we  pause,  and  ere  we  press 
Our  feet  upon  the  viewless  shore, 

We  give  a  thought  of  tenderness 
To  all  that  was — and  is,  no  more! 

*  _ 


EARTH'S  TRIUMPH  HOURS.  109 

Our  school-days !  pleasant  they  have  been, 

The  promise  of  the  unborn  years, 
And  must  the  parting  enter  in, 

And  turn  their  blessedness  to  tears  ? 

'T  is  here  together  we  have  knelt, 

Glad  worshippers  at  Wisdom's  shrine, 
Our  souls  have  thrilled  as  we  have  felt 

The  clasping  of  her  hand  divine ; 
The  lightning-thought,  a  chainless  thing, 

Throned  in  a  waveless  sea  of  light, 
Would  higher  lift  its  eagle  wing, 

And  scale  the  mountain's  proudest  hight. 

Aye,  there  are  gushing  founts  unsealed, 

For  which  our  panting  spirits  thirst, 
And  fuller  splendors  unrevealed 

Shall  on  the  dazzled  vision  burst ! 
Oh,  in  this  hour  of  tenderness, 

We  feel  the  wave  of  viewless  wings, 
And  inner  voices  bid  us  press 

To  higher,  nobler,  purer  things ! 

Sisters,  whose  voices'  gentle  swell 

Hath  blended  sweetly  with  our  own, 
And  brother,  now  the  fond  farewell, 

We  breathe,  with  hushed  and  sadden'd  tone, 
And  o'er  our  heart  there  comes  a  wave 

Of  mournful  music,  deep  and  strong, 
As  if  some  trembling  lute-string  gave 

The  burden  of  its  silver  song. 


110  EARTH'S  TRIUMPH  HOURS. 

'T  is  here  together  we  have  bowed, 

Meekly,  to  learn  the  Master's  will, 
And  felt,  beneath  the  sacred  cloud, 

The  hushing  of  the  "  Peace,  be  still !" 
Oh,  in  the  future  storms  unseen, 

May  not  the  same  voice  calm  the  strife, 
And  lend  us,  in  its  light  serene, 

The  sunshine  of  our  girlhood  life  ? 

It  may  be  ours,  with  words  of  love, 

To  wjn  the  wanderer  from  his  ways, 
Teach  the  bowed  soul  to  look  above, 

The  lips  of  cursing,  songs  of  praise ; 
It  may  be  ours,  with  fainting  feet, 

The  weary  walks  of  earth  to  tread, 
Cold  words  and  chilling  frowns  to  meet, 

Where  once  the  light  of  love  was  shed. 

Let  us  go  forth  with  cheerful  hearts, 

With  yearnings  for  the  pure  and  true, 
To  act,  in  earnestness,  our  parts, 

To  do  with  might  whatever  we  do ; 
And  though  we  suffer,  strength  divine 

Shall  gird  the  sinking  soul  with  power, 
And  angel  fingers  garlands  twine, 

To  grace  the  martyr's  triumph-hour. 

Our  Teachers  !  how  the  full  heart  glows  ! 

Warm,  gushing  thoughts  upon  us  press, 
We  may  not  break  the  pure  repose, 

The  holy  hush  of  thankfulness ; 


EARTH'S  TRIUMPH  HOURS.  Ill 


The  unsealed  waters  rise  and  swell, 
Their  depth  the  lip  may  ne'er  reveal ; 

For  words  grow  weak  and  may  not  tell, 
How  much  a  grateful  heart  may  feel. 

It  hath  heen  yours  to  lead  us  up 

The  winding  ways  of  Wisdom's  mount, 
Lift  to  our  lips  the  cooling  cup, 

Fresh  from  the  pure  and  crystal  fount : 
It  hath  been  yours  to  sweep  the  lyre, 

To  hold  the  wondrous  master-key, 
That  woke  to  life  the  high  desire, 

And  tuned  the  mind  to  minstrelsy. 

Oh,  not  in  vain  hath  been  the  care, 

The  watchful  love,  the  earnestness, 
The  wrestling  soul,  the  fervent  prayer, 

That  God  our  early  ways  would  bless ; 
The  seed  your  cheerful  hands  have  sown, 

Shall  quicken  in  the  grateful  soil, 
And  the  rich  harvest,  golden  grown, 

Shall  witness  of  your  earnest  toil ! 

The  guiding  words  that  softly  fell, 

Waking  the  soul's  unconscious  powers, 
With  mingled  melody  shall  swell 

The  glory  of  your  triumph-hours  ! 
Aye,  these  shall  make  your  lives  sublime, 

And  when  the  burning  stars  grow  dim, 
The  music  of  their  vesper-chime 

Shall  blend  with  the  eternal  hymn. 


112 


THE    DEAD    CHILD. 


We  pause — a  hush  comes  o'er  the  soul, 

And  bows  it  in  an  hour  like  this, 
When  the  heart's  heating  seems  to  toll 

The  death-knell  of  the  parted  bliss ; 
The  secret  fount  within  is  stirr'd, 

Higher  the  gushing  waters  swell, 
The  lip  may  breathe  one  only  word, 

Strangers  and  loved  ones,  all,  FAREWELL  ! 


THE   DEAD    CHILD. 

VEIL  away  the  summer  gladness, 

Shut  the  sunlight  from  the  room, 
Meet  is  now  the  wail  of  sadness, 
Meet  the  still  and  voiceless  gloom, 
Hearts  are  aching, 
Bleeding,  breaking, 
In  the  shadow  of  the  tomb, 

Many  a  flower  of  beauty  scattered 

Hath  the  household  garland  known, 
Many  an  idol  rudely  shattered, 
Jewels  missing  where  they  shone, 
Stars  benighted, 
Yet  relighted, 
Shining  in  the  Saviour's  crown. 


Fold  the  snowy  robes  around  him, 

Deck  him  for  his  narrow  bed, 
'T  is  a  wakeless,  sleep  hath  bound  him ; 
Well  we  know  the  child  is  dead ! 
Weep,  0  Mother ! 
For  another 
Birdling  from  thy  bosom  fled. 

Glancing  o'er  the  green  earth's  brightness, 

With  a  step  all  gay  and  fleet, 
Oh,  there  was  a  mystic  lightness, 
Merry,  musical  and  sweet, 
In  the  sounding 
Of  the  bounding 
Of  the  little  twinkling  feet ! 

Gently  smooth  the  silken  tresses 

As  in  sunny  days  before, 
Vain  are  all  thy  fond  caresses, 
He  may  heed  them  nevermore — 
Yet  we  could  not, 
Oh,  we  would  not 
Lure  him  from  the  spirit-shore. 

There  will  come  to  thee  the  brightness 

Of  the  lost  and  vanished  one, 
And  thine  ear  will  catch  the  lightness 
Of  his  soft  and  silvery  tone, 
In  the  morning, 
In  the  evening, 
In  the  night  and  at  the  noon. 


2  114 


THE    BEAUTIFUL. 


On  the  brow  so  meek  and  holy, 

We  the  last  fond  kiss  have  prest 
With  a  mournful  step  and  slowly, 
Lay  the  beautiful  to  rest ! 
Death,  the  reaper, 
Folds  the  sleeper 
Tightly  to  his  icy  breast. 


THE    BEAUTIFUL, 

IN  the  rich  drapery  of  a  sunset  sky, 

In  the  soft  shadows  of  the  twilight  hour, 
In  the  still  starlight  falling  from  on  high, 

In  the  faint  quiver  of  a  moonlit  shower ; 
In  the  deep  crimson  of  the  rose's  heart, 

In  the  pure  whiteness  of  the  lily's  bell, 
Where  bright  waves  gleam  and  glancing  sunbeams 
dart, 

The  spirit  of  the  Beautiful  doth  dwell ! 

In  the  light  step,  the  form  of  floating  grace, 

In  the  warm  sunshine  of  a  pleasant  smile, 
In  the  glad  love-light  of  a  cheerful  face, 

The  soul  untainted  by  the  breath  of  guile ; 
In  the  pure  heart,  where  one  resistless  flood, 

The  holy  waters  of  affection  swell, 
In  all  things  high  and  glorious  and  good, 

The  spirit  of  the  Beautiful  doth  dwell 


— 

I  TWILIGHT    MUSINGS.  115 


TWILIGHT    MUSINGS. 

HAIL,  holy  hour !  methinks  that  Paradise 
Hath  lent  a  veil  to  shade  thy  mellow  skies, 
So  calmly  fades  each  gorgeous  sunset  hue, 
And  melts  serenely  in  the  tranquil  blue, 
So  soft  and  shadowy  is  the  pensive  light 
That  marks  the  bridal  of  the  day  and  night. 

How  sweet  the  dawning  of  this  solemn,  hour 
O'er  every  thought  it  sheds  a  soothing  power, 
Refines  the  being — elevates  the  soul, 
And  binds  each  passion  with  a  calm  control ; 
While  contemplation  lifts  her  brow  on  high, 
And  paints  the  glories  of  a  fairer  sky. 

Mount !  mount,  my  soul !  thou  restless  spirit,  soar, 
And  fold  thy  pinions  on  that  viewless  shore, 
Far,  far  beyond  the  proudest  hights  of  time, 
Oh,  lift  thy  longings  to  that  holy  clime, 
Where  light  resplendent  gilds  eternal  day, 
And  peaceful  seasons  never  pass  away ! 

Why  droops  thy  wing  !  why  tires  thy  lofty  flight  ? 

Canst  thou  not  pierce  Eternity's  own  light  ? 

Immortal  life,  that  glorious  gift  is  thine — 

The  gift  to  fathom  mysteries  divine. 

Then  break  the  chain  that  fain  would  bind  thee  here, 

And  plume  thy  pinions  for  a  cloudless  sphere. 


THE    DIVORCED    WIFE. 


Pause,  burning  Thought !  dost  think  to  scale  the  cloud 
That  wraps  the  heavens  in  a  mystic  shroud  ? 
Thine  eye  must  dim,  thy  wing  must  powerless  droop, 
To  weaker  things  thy  daring  flight  must  stoop ; 
Firm  are  the  links  of  earth's  unyielding  chain, 
Back  to  my  heart !   thy  longings  all  are  vain  ! 

Soul,  dost  thou  spurn  the  feeble  things  of  earth  ? 
Wouldst  seek  the  home  that  gave  thy  yearnings  birth  ? 
Wouldst  soar  above  the  cold  and  senseless  clod, 
And  bow,  with  angels,  at  the  throne  of  God  ? 
One  holy  power  can  waft  thee  sweetly  there — 
Devotion's  breath — the  wing  of  fervent  prayer  ! 


THE    DIVOKCED   WIFE. 

THOU  wilt  forget  me  when  dark  eyes 

Are  flashing  proudly  on  thy  sight, 
When  fair  forms  bend  around  thy  path, 

And  radiant  smiles  are  beaming  bright ; 
Thou  wilt  forget  me  when  soft  tones 

Are  breathing  music  on  thine  ear, 
For  ah  !  no  voice  may  dare  to  speak 

The  name  that  once  to  thee  was  dear ! 

Thou  wilt  forget  me  when  the  world 
To  thee  its  willing  homage  pays, 

When  fair  hands  strew  thy  path  with  flowers, 
And  fond  lips  proudly  speak  thy  praise ; 


THE    DIVORCED    WIFE. 


117 


For  once  I  saw  thee  when  thy  brow 
Was  circled  by  the  wreath  of  fame, 

When  triumph  wing'd  the  golden  hours, 
And  syren  voices  breathed  thy  name. 

I  saw  thee,  and  thine  eyes  met  mine — 

How  coldly  fell  their  gaze  on  me  ! 
And  thou  didst  .smile — a  strange,  proud  smile 

As  if  to  mock  my  agony ! 
In  vain  I  strove  to  veil  my  woe, 

And  teach  my  lip  a  smile  to  wear, 
Alas  !  my  aching  brow  would  pale, 

My  heart  grow  faint  when  thou  wert  near ! 

Thou  wilt  forget  that  once  my  soul 

Drank  in  the  music  of  thy  voice, 
That  once  each  thrilling  tone  of  thine 

Could  make  this  throbbing  heart  rejoice ; 
And  thou  wilt  choose  a  fairer  one, 

To  tread  with  thee  the  walks  of  life, 
Yet  in  the  holy  sight  of  Heaven, 

I  only  am  thy  wedded  wife ! 

Thou  wilt  forget  that  once  thy  lips 

Were  prest  unto  this  burning  brow — - 
That  thou  didst  clasp  my  hand  in  thine, 

And  speak  the  solemn  marriage-vow ; 
Thou  wilt  forget  it,  but  the  God 

That  sealed  that  vow  will  ne'er  forget ; 
The  golden  chain  of  wedded  love, 

With  Him,  is  firm  and  binding  yet. 


ins 


THE    DIVORCED    WIFE. 


And  dost  thou  think,  with  other  men, 

The  tie  that  bound  our  hearts  is  riven  ? 
Dost  think  those  sacred,  solemn  words, 

Are  nothing  in  the  sight  of  Heaven  ? 
By  all  the  love  I  bear  thee  now, 

By  all  the  love  that  blest  me  then, 
I  still  am  thine  and  thou  art  mine, 

Though  strangers  in  the  eyes  of  men  ! 

Oh,  could  I  steel  my  bleeding  heart 

To  every  tender  thought  of  thee, 
And  ne'er  betray,  by  word  or  sign, 

Its  deep  and  bitter  agony ! 
Oh,  could  I  mingle  with  the  crowd, 

With  mien  so  gay  that  none  might  know 
How  dark  a  spell  had  bound  my  soul, 

How  wild  the  night  of  hopeless  woe ! 

Oh,  could  I  but  forget  the  past, 

With  the  fair  scenes  that  Fancy  wove, 
Forget  the  hopes  all  blighted  now, 

And  all  the  holy  dream  of  love ! 
But  no  !  my  husband,  sooner  far, 

Will  yonder  stars  forget  to  shine, 
Than  this  fond  heart  forget  its  love, 

Or  cease  to  mourn  the  loss  of  thine  ! 

Forget  thee  ?  no,  }t  were  all  in  vain  ! 

Though  faithless,  still,  I  chide  thee  not ; 
The  peaceful  hour  may  never  come, 

When  thy  loved  name  will  be  forgot ! 


THE    DEAD    MOTHER. 


In  the  calm  night  when  all  is  still, 
And  in  the  silent  hour  of  prayer, 

Ah !  turn  me  wheresoe'er  I  will, 

Thy  worshipped  image  still  is  there ! 


THE  DEAD  MOTHER 

WAKE  !  mother,  wake  !  the  rosy  morn  is  breaking, 
The  silver  stars  have  shut  their  twinkling  eyes, 

The  summer  day,  in  glory,  now  is  waking, 
This  is  the  hour  that  thou  wert  wont  to  rise. 

Wake !  mother,  wake !  the  birds  are  sweetly  singing, 
The  flowers  are  sparkling  in  the  dewy  light, 

The  village  bell  a  merry  peal  is  ringing, 
And  all  around  is  beautiful  and  bright. 

Wake !  mother,  wake  !    long,  long  hath  been  thy 
sleeping, 

Since  the  fair  twilight  threw  its  shadows  'round, 
The  golden  sunbeams,  through  the  curtains,  peeping, 

Would  wake  a  sleep  less  strange,  or  less  profound. 

Wake  !  mother,  wake !  I  miss  thy  kindly  greeting, 
Thy  calm,  cold  look,  ah  1  how  it  makes  me  weep ! 

Thy  heart  is  still,  I  feel  no  more  its  beating, 
And  something  tells  me  thou  wilt  ever  sleep ! 


THE    DEAD    MOTHER. 


Wake  !   mother,  wake  !   why  heed'st  thou  not  my 
crying  ? 

But  yester-eve  those  white  lips  on  me  smiled, 
Now  on  thy  breast  my  weary  head  is  lying, 

Kind  mother,  wake,  and  bless  thy  weeping  child ! 

Wake  !    mother,  wake  !    whilst  thou   art  sweetly 
dreaming, 

I  lay  my  hand  upon  thy  peaceful  brow, 
'T  is  icy  cold  !  the  sunlight,  on  it  streaming, 

Hath  not  the  power  to  warm  its  paleness  now. 

Wake  !  mother,  wake  !  for  I  am  weary  calling, 
A  chilling  weight  is  resting  on  my  heart, 

On  thy  pale  cheek  my  tears  are  fastly  falling, 

And  strange,  sad  thoughts  their  shadows  round,  me 
dart. 

Speak !  mother,  speak !  my  arms  are  round  thee 
twining, 

Dost  thou  not  feel  my  warm  cheek  close  to  thine  ? 
What  means  this  sudden  splendor  round  thee  shining, 

I  ne'er  beheld  a  glory  so  divine ! 

Sleep  !  mother,  sleep  !  the  sunlight  now  is  lying 
In  many  a  warm,  soft  shadow,  on  the  floor ; 

The  stars  have  set,  and  the  pale  moon  is  dying, 
Alas  !  sweet  mother,  thou  wilt  wake  no  more  ! 


CHILD    OF    SUNSHINE. 


121 


CHILD   OF   SUNSHINE. 

CHILD  of  sunshine,  joy  to  thee, 
With  thy  laughter  wild  and  free  ! 
With  thy  curling,  elfin  hair 
Floating  round  thy  forehead  fair, 
With  thy  fleet  and  airy  tread, 
Lips  of  coral,  full  and  red, 
With  a  cheek  whose  hloom  might  vie 
With  the  rose-heart's  crimson  dye, 
Winning  by  thy  playful  wiles, 
Fond  caresses,  tender  smiles, 
What  a  world  of  gladness  lies 
Deep  within  thy  violet  eyes  ! 
Now  thy  merry  voice  is  heard, 
Joyous  as  a  singing  bird, 
Now  thy  fairy  form  is  seen 
Bounding  o'er  the  meadows  green, 
Glancing,  like  a  thing  of  light, 
Through  the  clover,  red  and  white, 
Up  the  hill  and  clown  the  dell, 
Graceful  as  a  wild  gazelle, 
By  the  placid  river's  side, 
Where  the  pleasant  waters  glide, 
Through  the  long,  bright,  golden  hours, 
Like  a  sunbeam  'mid  the  flowers, 
Busy  with  thy  guileless  play, 
All  the  live-long  summer-day 


i 


GLEANINGS  FROM  THE  HOURS. 

Not  a  cloud  or  shadow  knows, 
From  its  dawning  to  its  close ! 
Dimples  make  their  dwelling-place 
In  the  heart-light  of  thy  face, 
Angels  in  thy  bosorn  rest, 
Child  of  sunshine,  thou  art  blest ! 


GLEANINGS  FKOM   THE   HOUKS. 

As  shining  links  in  life's  mysterious  chain, 
As  soft  notes  swelling  to  a  thrilling  strain, 
As  bright  waves  flashing  to  the  viewless  shore, 
Where  dwell  the  loved,  the  lost,  the  gone  before, 
As  the  low  voice  of  things  that  never  die 
Bearing  a  record  to  the  throne  on  high, 
As  clasps  that  bind  the  present  with  the  past, 
As  golden  fragments  from  forever  cast, 
As  threads  of  which  our  destiny  is  wove, 
As  priceless  jewels  lent  us  from  above, 
As  garlands  scattered  from  eternal  bowers, 
Such,  unto  us,  are  life's  immortal  hours. 

Immortal  ?  aye,  swiftly  they  come  and  go, 
Yet  seal  our  destiny,  for  weal  or  woe, 
As  springs  the  harvest  from  the  seed  we  sow, 
As  swells  the  river  from  the  streams  that  flow, 
And  though,  perchance,  we  fondly,  vainly  dream, 
The  golden  hours  are  fleeting  as  they  seem, 
The  dawn,  the  shine,  the  fading  of  a  beam, 


GLEANINGS  FROM  THE  HOURS. 


123 


Yet  they  are  solemn — solemn,  since  they  swell 
The  ranks  of  Heaven  or  the  hosts  of  Hell, 
And  deathless,  since  each  mighty  moment  bears, 
Some  mark  that  tells  on  the  eternal  years. 

There  is  an  hour — the  last,  this  side  the  tomb. 
An  hour  so  fearful  with  the  weight  of  doom, 
So  veiled  in  glory,  or  so  wrapt  in  gloom, 
With  the  full  splendor  from  above  so  bright, 
The  new-born  rapture  bursting  on  the  sight 
Or  with  a  dark,  undying  woe  so  deep, 
The  woe  that  breaks  the  dreamer's  fatal  sleep, 
The  night  that  shrouds  the  soul's  eternal  all, 
And  gathers  round  it  as  a  fearful  pall, 
As  come  the  shadows  ere  the  tempests  fall, 
An  hour  with  all  that  never  dies  so  fraught 
The  soul  will  bow  beneath  its  crushing  thought. 

Come  to  the  bedside  of  the  dying  one 
Who  ne'er  hath  sought  the  Father's  holy  Son, 
Whose  hours  have  borne  a  record  to  the  skies, 
That  seals,  for  her,  the  death  that  never  dies ! 
'T  is  a  proud  mansion  in  a  sunny  land, 
By  bright  waves  kissed,  and  spicy  breezes  fanned ; 
A  land  of  beauty  where  through  all  the  day, 
From  gushing  fountains  leap  the  silvery  spray, 
A  land  of  sunshine  and  of  gladness,  where 
Steals  a  sweet  fragrance  to  the  dreamy  air, 
From  scented  groves  ahd  waving  orange-bowers, 
Where  bright  birds  glance  amid  the  tropic  flowers. 


§124 


GLEANINGS  FROM  THE  HOURS. 


And  glittering  insects  dip  their  dazzling  dyes, 
In  the  clear  azure  of  the  mellow  skies. 

'T  is  a  proud  mansion — softly  through  the  halls 
The  shaded  light,  in  dreamy  splendor,  falls, 
Mirrors  are  flashing  from  the  stately  walls, 
Hoses  are  smiling,  *neath  the  dainty  tread, 
From  crimson  carpets  blushing  into  red, 
Odors  are  floating  through  the  gorgeous  rooms 
From,  jewel' d  censers  breathing  sweet  perfumes, 
And  the  low  sound  of  fountains,  in  their  play, 
Breathes  on  the  ear  a  faint  and  lulling  lay. 
Yet  there  is  gloom  within  that  high  home  now, 
She  of  the  stately  mien  and  haughty  brow 
At  whose  proud  feet  the  vassal'd  millions  bow, 
She  who  hath  scorned  the  lowly  things  of  earth 
And  madly  reveled  in  the  halls  of  mirth, 
She  who  hath  danced  the  golden  hours  away, 
As  if  her  life  were  but  one  gala-day, 
The  brightest  star  of  all  the  dazzling  crowd, 
The  peerless  one,  the  beautiful,  the  proud, 
Hath  laid  her  high  and  lofty  bearing  by, 
And,  in  her  helplessness,  laid  down  to  die ! 


;T  is  the  last  hour !  what  recks  her  splendor  now 
The  jewels  flashing  on  her  queenly  brow, 
The  royal  emblems  of  unrivaled  power, 
Oh,  what  are  these  in  this,  a  dying  hour  1 
Jl       She  heeds  them  not — the  dream  of  life  is  o'er, 
Her  feet  are  pressing  to  the  unseen  shore, 


GLEANINGS    FKOM    THE    HOURS. 

No  angel  breathings  from  the  land  of  rest, 
Sink  softly  down  into  her  troubled  breast, 
No  peaceful  ray,  no-  light  is  in  her  soul, 
No  cloudless  vision  of  a  heavenly  goal, 
No  morning  star  dawns  in  its  light  serene, 
And  throws  a  halo  o'er  the  rayless  scene, 
Cold  on  her  heart  there  lies  a  crushing  weight, 
She  wakes  at  last,  but  wakes,  alas  !  too  late ! 
A  sudden  horror  lights  the  glaring  eye, 
From  the  white  lips  wails  out  the  piercing  cry, 
"  Spare  me,  0  God  !  I  cannot,  cannot  die." 
'T  is  all  in  vain !  the  race  of  life  is  run, 
Her  hours  are  lost — her  deathless  soul  undone  ! 


Come  to  the  bedside  of  the  dying  one 
Who  waits  to  hear  the  Master's  sweet  well-done, 
Whose  hours  have  borne  a  record  to  the  skies, 
That  seals,  for  her,  the  life  that  never  dies ! 
JT  is  the  last  hour !  what  is  it  breaks  the  gloom 
And  gives  a  glory  to  the  voiceless  tomb  ? 
A  joy  so  deep  that  e'en  the  lowly  room, 
Seems  like  a  heaven  !  ah,  Heaven  itself  is  near, 
Nor  trembling  doubt,  nor  sinking  hope,  nor  fear, 
Cloud  the  rapt  vision  of  the  trusting  soul, 
As  dawns  the  glory  of  the  glittering  goal. 
Jesus  is  with  her — with  her  since  she  trod 
The  paths  of  life,  in  meekness,  with  her  God, 
The  risen  Saviour  guides  her  willing  feet 
Through  the  dark  vale  where  earth  and  Heaven 
meet ! 


?-  $ 


126 


GLEANINGS  FROM  THE  HOURS. 


A  sudden  splendor  lights  the  dimming  eye, 
The  low,  sweet  echo  of  the  parting  sigh, 
Floats  softly  up  beyond  the  starry  sky, 
"  'T  is  sweet  to  live,  yet  glorious  to  die  ! " 
Come  gentle  Death !  the  work  of  life  is  done, 
The  crown  is  hers,  the  victory  is  won ! 

0,  solemn  Time  !  we  may  not  fathom  thee 
Since  through  a  glass  we  dimly,  darkly  see, 
We  may  not  read  thy  deep,  unwritten  lines, 
Thy  clear  revealing  of  the  Spirit's  shrines 
Veiled  save  to  God — we  may  not  see  the  light 
That  dawns  upon  thee  in  thy  silent  flight, 
The  still,  clear  radiance  from  the  world  afar, 
That  gives  to  Him  thy  pages  as  they  are — 
'T  is  ours  to  work — to  work  while  yet  the  day 
Hath  known  no  night — 't  is  ours  to  trust  and  pray, 
To  seize  the  moments  ere  they  glide  away, 
To  live  in  earnest,  ere  the  future  be, 
And  Death  reveals  life's  solemn  mystery. 
So  shall  the  hours  be  beautiful  and  blest, 
The  peaceful  dawnings  of  an  endless  rest ; 
The  golden  lamps  our  virgin  hands  shall  trim, 
Our  life  the  prelude  to  Forever's  hymn, 
Our  living  hours  the  gleams  of  glory  given, 
The  dying  hour  an  entrance  into  Heaven ! 


THE    BIRDS. 


127 


THE   BIKDS. 

THEY  come !  they  come !  a  beautiful  band 
From  the  dreamy  shades  of  the  southern  land, 
They  come,  we  know  by  the  merry  trill 
That  softly  floats  o'er  the  distant  hill, 
By  the  warble  wild  in  the  woodlands  dim, 
Like  the  swelling  voice  of  a  thrilling  hymn, 
A  silver  song  and  a  floating  strain — 
The  birds  !  the  birds  !  they  are  here  again ! 

They  come  with  the  gush  of  the  rippling  rills, 
When  the  grass  grows  green  on  the  pleasant  hills, 
When  the  founts  are  loos'd,  and  the  old  earth  rings 
With  the  tinkling  chime  of  a  thousand  springs — 
They  come  with  the  sound  of  the  rustling  trees, 
And  the  balmy  breath  of  the  scented  breeze, 
A  wild,  sweet  song  and  a  gushing  strain — 
The  birds !  the  birds  !  they  are  here  again ! 


128  THE    ORIGIN    OF    THE    DEW-DROP. 


THE   OKIGIN   OF   THE   DEW-DKOP. 

THE  king  of  day  in  royal  robes 

Of  gold  and  purple  drest, 
Had  drawn  his  crimson  curtains  round, 

And  softly  sunk  to  rest : 
The  splendor  of  his  dying  tints 

Had  faded  from  the  earth, 
The  twilight's  deepening  gloom  had  hushed 

The  voice  of  careless  mirth, 
And  all  around  was  bathed  in  hues 

So  calm  and  strangely  fair, 
That  Nature  seemed  to  praise  her  God 

In  still  and  voiceless  prayer. 

The  hours  past  on — the  holy  eve 

Had  lent  its  softest  shade, 
When  lo  !  upon  the  tranquil  sky 

One  silver  star  was  laid. 
An  angel  bright  and  beautiful, 

With  form  divinely  fair, 
Had  winged  his  flight  from  Paradise 

And  gently  laid  it  there, 
And  then  a  thousand  glowing  lamps 

He  lit  with  splendor  bright, 
A  thousand  golden  jewels  hung 

High  on  the  brow  of  night ; 


— 

I  THE    ORIGIN    OF    THE    DEW-DROP.  129 

With  myriad  hosts  of  burning  stars 

The  azure  heavens  beamed, 
While  over  all  a  dreamy  flood 

Of  silver  moonlight  streamed. 


The  angel  paused — his  mission  high, 

His  holy  work  was  done, 
The  moonbeams  lent  their  purest  tints, 

The  stars  resplendent  shone ; 
A  cloud  of  glory  seemed  to  rest 

O'er  earth  and  heaven  fair, 
Blest  as  the  light  that  shone  of  old, 

On  Eden's  sinless  pair. 
From  the  rapt  seraph's  kindling  eye, 

One  silent  tear-drop  fell, 
That  in  a  world  so  beautiful, 

The  shades  of  sin  should  dwell, 
That  proud,  ungrateful,  fallen  man 

Should  'gainst  his  God  rebel ! 

Low  down  upon  the  velvet  earth, 

A  lovely  flower  reposed, 
Its  snowy  bell  was  folded  up, 

Its  starry  eye  was  closed, 
When  lo !  a  zephyr,  passing  by, 

Its  spotless  leaves  carest, 
And  kiss'd  away  the  thrilling  sweets 

Within  its  peaceful  breast. 
When  downward  through  the  trackless  air, 

The  angel  tear-drop  fell, 


J*^*Q       *^     O 

2130 


PICTURES. 


It  gently  laid  its  pearly  tints, 

Within  the  floweret's  bell, 
And  when  the  sunshine  bathed  the  hills 

In  floods  of  rosy  light, 
It  softly  shone  and  sparkled  there, 

A  thing  divinely  bright. 
A  gladder  beauty  seemed  to  gild 

The  broad  and  peaceful  earth, 
And  Nature  blessed  the  holy  night 

That  gave  the  Dew-drop  birth ! 


PICTURES. 

THEY  come  to  us,  the  beautiful,  the  bright, 

The  pleasant  pictures  of  the  olden  time, 
Unfolding  sweetly  to  the  heart  to-night, 

'Mid  music's  strains  and  voices'  silvery  chime ; 
They  come  to  us  unfading  in  the  glow, 

That  throws  a  halo  o'er  the  vanish'd  year, 
That  gilds  each  joy  and  glorifies  each  woe, 

That  paints  the  smile  and  shadows  not  the  tear ; 
They  come  to  us,  the  pictures  of  the  past, 

Bathed  in  the  sunshine  of  the  memory-light, 
Each  blessed  vision  brighter  than  the  last, 

Dawning  in  beauty  on  the  raptured  sight, 
Until  the  heart  hath  crowned  the  by-gone  years, 
With  all  of  sunshine  and  with  nought  of  tears. 


PICTURES. 


The  veil  is  lifted  from  the  future  now, 

Its  scenes  made  known,  its  visions  bright  un 
sealed, 
Its  pictures  hung  in  Fancy's  brilliant  glow, 

By  the  full  splendor  of  her  torch  revealed. 
They  come  to  us,  the  radiant,  the  fair, 

Painted  in  hues  that  dazzle  as  they  shine, 
Each  tint  that  glows,  each  form  unfolded  there, 

Is  treasured  deep  within  the  Spirit's  shrine ; 
They  come  to  us,  the  glowing  pictures  traced, 

In  the  pure  brightness  of  eternal  dews, 
Each  gorgeous  scene  unblemished,  uneffaced, 

Giving  the  soul  the  gladness  of  its  hues, 
Until  the  heart  hath  crowned  the  unborn  years, 
With  all  of  sunshine  and  with  nought  of  tears. 

Call  them  not  voiceless  though  they  breathe  no  word, 

Though  lips  are  mute  and  the  fair  form  is  still, 
They  have  a  language,  by  the  spirit  heard — 

A  silent  speech  that  to  the  soul  doth  thrill ; 
Call  them  not  voiceless,  pictures  though  they  are, 

Perchance  they  breathe  some  long  forgotten  name, 
Light  softly  up  some  dimly  setting  star, 

And  fan  the  spark  unto  a  brilliant  flame ; 
The  bright  creation  glowing  there,  may  give 

A  deeper  purpose  to  the  pure  desire, 
A  nobler  aim  for  which  to  love  and  live, 

A  holier  luster  to  the  sacred  fire, 
And  the  meek  soul,  by  e'en  a  picture  taught, 
May  find  a  glory  in  the  penciled  thought. 


132 


ANGEL    CHARLIE. 


There  is  a  picture,  glorious  and  bright, 

A  vision  painted  by  an  unseen  hand, 
The  pencil  dipped  in  floods  of  living  light, 

Unfolds  the  splendor  of  the  viewless  land. 
The  Christian  wears  the  shadow  of  the  scene 

Framed  in  the  sunshine  of  his  trusting  soul, 
Throned  in  the  beauty  of  the  light  serene, 

The  still,  clear  radiance  of  the  shining  goal ; 
The  scene  is  Heaven,  with  all  its  wondrous  charms, 

The  Soul  the  canvas,  and  the  artist,  Faith, 
A  new-born  rapture  all  the  being  warms, 

When  floating  down  the  silent  tide  of  Death 
Each  soft  tint  dies,  thus  dimly,  faintly  given, 
And  melts  away  into  the  light  of  Heaven. 


ANGEL   CHARLIE. 

HE  sleeps — "  our  little  Charlie"  sleeps- — 

We  know  the  babe  is  blest, 
Cradled  so  soft  and  tenderly, 

On  the  dear  Saviour's  breast ; 
Why  should  our  eyes  with  tears  be  dim, 

Our  darling  is  not  dead, 
We  know  that  all  is  well  with  him, 

Let  us  be  comforted  ! 

'T  was  Jesus  led  the  precious  child, 
Out  of  this  world  of  sin, 


SONG    TO    A    BIRD. 


133 


The  golden  gates  of  bliss  swung  back 

To  let  our  Angel  in  ; 
Look  up,  ye  bleeding  parent-hearts, 

Who  mourn  the  sweet  tie  riven, 
And  feel  how  blessed  't  is  to  have 

A  little  boy  in  Heaven. 


SONG-  TO  A  BIRD. 

WHERE  is  thy  home,  sweet  bird  ? 
Is  it  far  away  in  a  distant  land, 
Where  the  blue  waves  flash  on  the  ocean's  strand  ? 
In  the  gorgeous  heart  of  the  South  Sea  Isle, 
'Neath  a  sky  as  soft  as  an  infant's  smile, 
Does  thy  wild  song  float  through  the  spicy  bowers, 
And  thy  bright  wings  glance  'mid  the  orange  flowers  ? 

Whence  comes  thy  song,  sweet  bird  ? 
Hast  thou  soared  away  in  the  deep,  blue  sky, 
Till  thy  quick  ear  thrilled  to  the  chorus  high, 
Of  the  far-off  song  of  the  angel-choir  ? 
Did  it  fill  thy  soul  with  the  music-fire, 
That  lives  and  breathes  in  thy  gushing  strain, 
With  a  charm  to  hush  and  a  spell  to  chain  ? 

Whence  comes  the  hue,  bright  bird 
Of  the  light  that  gleams  where  thy  pinions  dart, 
Like  the  tint  that  glows  in  the  rose's  heart  ? 


13= 


134 


TO-DAY. 


1 


In  thy  giddy  course,  o'er  the  mountain's  hight, 
Didst  thou  bathe  thy  wing  in  the  dewy  light 
Of  the  purple  cloud  of  the  early  day, 
As  it  floated  off  on  its  morning  way  ? 

Farewell,  farewell,  sweet  bird ! 
Thou  hast  fixed  thine  eye  on  the  blazing  light, 
And  thy  wing  is  spread  for  a  lofty  flight, 
Thou  art  free,  thou  art  free,  as  the  boundless  air, 
And  no  wailing  note  doth  thy  glad  song  bear, 
Like  the  dying  gleam  of  a  setting  star, 
Thou  art  gone  !  thou  art  lost  in  the  blue  afar  ! 

My  song  is  all  unheard  ! 


TO-DAY, 

TIE  that  binds  the  past  and  future, 

Wonderful  with  destiny, 
Linking  all  that  ever  has  been 

To  what  may  hereafter  be ; 
Wave  from  out  a  viewless  ocean, 

Dashing  on  the  shores  of  time, 
Every  hour  the  far-off  echo 

Of  the  swelling  surge  sublime ; 
Kay  of  God's  eternal  being, 

Shining  down  upon  our  way, 
Who  may  tell  the  mighty  meaning 

Of  the  little  word,  to-day  ! 


TO-DAY. 


135 


Comprehending  all  the  present, 

All  the  real  life  we  live, 
Speech  is  voiceless  to  define  it, 

Words  may  ne'er  its  language  give ; 
Speak  it  soft,  or  speak  it  solemn, 

Speak  it  often  as  we  may, 
We  may  never  tell  the  meaning 

Of  the  mystical  to-day. 

In  the  great  world's  ceaseless  stirring, 

In  the  jarring  din  and  strife, 
Shall  we  call  to-day  a  trifle  ? 

Is  it  not  our  all  of  life  ? 
Aye,  we  may  not  look  beyond  it, 

Yesterday  we  know  is  past, 
We  may  never  see  to-morrow, 

This  to-day  may  be  our  last ! 
Only  time  for  earnest  action, 

Only  time  to  watch  and  pray, 
Endless  joy  or  endless  wailing, 

Hang  upon  the  vast  to-day. 

Every  deed  to-day  shall  witness^ 

Every  lowly  deed  of  love, 
.Borne  by  God's  recording  angel, 

To  the  burning  Throne  above  > 
Every  word  the  lip  shall  utter 

Be  it  ill  or  be  it  well, 
Solemnly  or  lightly  spoken, 

On  the  endless  years  shall  tell. 


136 


BEAUTIFUL    TO    DIE. 


Let  us  seize  each  priceless  moment, 

Let  us  work  and  watch  and  pray, 
Knowing  that  we  meet  hereafter, 

Every  thing  we  do  to-day  ! 
Then  the  veil  shall  be  uplifted 

From  the  vision,  faint  and  dim, 
And  the  song  of  time  shall  mingle 

With  the  grand  eternal  hymn ; 
Yea,  our  life  shall  he  an  anthem 

Swelling  up  the  shining  way, 
And  Eternity  the  finale 

Of  the  glorious  to-day. 


BEAUTIFUL   TO   DIE. 

"  0  Death,  where  is  thy  sting  ?" — BIBLE. 

IT  must  be  beautiful  to  die 

To  the  soft  echo  of  the  angels'  singing, 
When  seraph-strains  are  stealing  from  the  sky, 

And  the  new  song  upon  the  ear  is  ringing. 

It  must  be  beautiful  to  die, 

Stepping,  unshrinking,  in  the  silent  river, 
By  the  clear  light  of  faith's  discerning  eye, 

Looking  beyond,  unto  the  great  Forever. 

It  must  be  beautiful  to  die, 

Sweetly  released  from  all  that  ever  bound  us, 


-=* 

LINES    TO    AN    INVALID    SISTEK.  IcJ 

The  glad  soul  soaring  to  its  home  on  high, 
The  angels  near,  the  Saviour's  arm  around  us. 

. 
It  must  be  glorious  to  die, 

Since  Death  is  but  a  mournful  fetter  riven, 
The  opening  of  the  portals  of  the  sky, 

The  gate  of  bliss,  the  master-key  of  Heaven ! 


LINES   TO   AN   INVALID   SISTER. 

SWEET  sister,  thou  wert  beautiful, 

Ere  suffering  had  paled  thy  brow, 
Ere  thy  young  heart  had  known  the  spell 

Of  weariness  that  binds  it  now ; 
There  was  a  sunshine  in  thy  smile, 

A  bright  and  nameless  witchery, 
That  played  upon  our  hearts  the  while, 

And  woke  a  deeper  love  for  thee. 

And  yet  more  beautiful  than  this, 

And  holier  than  thine  early  bloom, 
The  charm  that  thy  sweet  gentleness, 

Hath  thrown  around  our  peaceful  home ; 
The  calm,  bright  radiance  on  thy  face, 

Breathes  of  the  soul's  tranquillity, 
The  blessedness  of  that  meek  grace, 

That  maketh  anguish  dear  to  thee. 

From  the  fond  dreams  of  other  days, 
Comes  there,  unbidden,  no  soft  strain  ? 


SILENT    CITIES. 


No  spell  from  sunny  memories, 

That  lures  thee  to  the  world  again  ? 

Nay,  by  the  light  on  thy  pale  brow, 
The  eloquence  of  thy  soft  eyes, 

Thy  low,  sweet  words  of  love,  we  know 
Thy  way  is  tending  to  the  skies. 

Meekly,  my  sister,  thou  dost  drink 

The  cup  thy  Father's  hand  prepares, 
Thy  patient  spirit  cannot  shrink 

From  all  the  weariness  it  bears, 
Since  Jesus  marks  the  thorny  road, 

And  gently  paves  the  way  for  thee, 
The  way  that  leads  to  Heaven  and  God; 

To  light  and  immortality. 


SILENT   CITIES. 

THERE  is  a  grandeur  in  the  mournful  gloom, 

That  broods  above  the  cities  of  the  dead, 
An  awe  that  steals  its  shadow  from  the  tomb, 

While  o'er  the  place  of  perished  pride  we  tread ; 
To  the  bowed  heart  there  comes  a  crushing  weight, 

A  quiet  awfulness  profoundly  deep, 
When  the  lone  soul  hath  marked  the  hand  of  fate, 

And  traced  the  graves  where  buried  cities  sleep. 


SILENT    CITIES.  139 

The  tall,  damp  grass  luxuriantly  grows 

Where  once  Was  reared  the  monumental  pile, 
O'er  the  sad  spot  the- wild  wind  moaning  blows, 

The  sunlight  quivers  with  a  sickly  smile ; 
No  echo  wakes  the  voiceless  solitudes, 

No  star  lights  up  the  deep,  unbroken  gloom, 
But,  over  all,  stern  Desolation  broodsj 

The  king  of  ruin,  monarch  of  the  tomb  ! 

There  comes  no  voice  from  crumbling  arch  or  stone, 

To  tell  the  splendor  of  the  storied  past, 
No  lofty  strain  from  mouldering  ruin  lone, 

To  breathe  how  grand,  how  glorious,  how  vast, 
Was  the  great  city  in  her  day  of  pride, 

When  pomp  unrivaled  o'er  her  arches  rolled, 
Ere  plunged  beneath  the  desolating  tide, 

Her  proud  soul  bowed,  her  mighty  heart  grew  cold. 

There  steals  no  tender  tone  from  ivied  walls, 

No  voice  from  out  the  mournful  hush  to  tell, 
How  regal  homes  and  gorgeous  palace  halls, 

Together  in  one  common  ruin  fell ; 
No  outward  sign,  no  vestige  dim,  no  trace 

Unfolds  the  scene  of  power  and  grandeur  fled, 
Nor  arch,  nor  stone,  nor  ruin,  marks  the  place> 

Where  sleep  the  fated  cities  of  the  dead. 

A  Silence  is  here,  and  yet  the  soul  hath  caughtj 
From  its  mute  eloquence  ah  echo  deep, 
That  bows  the  heart,  unseals  the  fount  of  thought, 
M      Reveals  the  spot  where  they,  the  fallen,  sleep, 

= 


140 


SILENT    CITIES. 


And  by  the  hush  that  o'er  the  being  steals, 
The  solemn  spell  unbroken,  deep,  profound, 

The  mystic  awe  the  breathless  spirit  feels, 
We  know  we  tread  on  consecrated  ground ! 

Aye,  consecrated,  since  the  long  grass  waves, 

Where  high  homes  towered,  and  hearts  once  proudly 

beat. 
Springs  greenly  up  from  unremembered  graves, 

And  softly  bends  beneath  the  pilgrim's  feet ; 
And  consecrated,  since  the  wanderer's  tread, 

Is  o'er  the  grave  of  princely  pomp  and  pride, 
And  the  still  air  breathes  of  the  mighty  dead, 

The  great  of  earth  who  here  have  lived  and  died ! 

'T  was  here,  of  old,  the  circling  tides  of  life, 

The  giddy  whirl,  the  wild,  tumultuous  flow, 
Together  mingled  in  a  ceaseless  strife, 

And  busy  forms  were  hurrying  to  and  fro ; 
'T  was  here  the  sound  of  revelry  was  heard, 

And  music's  strains  stole  on  the  clear  still  night, 
And  young  hearts  thrilled,   and   magic  hopes   were 
stirr'd, 

As  fair  forms  floated  in  the  wildering  light. 

7T  was  here  they  moved,  the  radiant,  the  fair, 
With  eyes  of  light  and  forms  of  airy  grace, 

'T  was  here  the  maiden  decked  her  shining  hair, 
And  wooed  the  sunshine  to  her  speaking  face ; 

Here,  the  white  wreath  she  bound  upon  her  brow, 
With  trembling  hand  and  heart  of  swelling  pride, 

= 


SILENT    CITIES. 


141 


And  the  glad  voice  grew  musical  and  low, 
As  fell  the  words  that  made  the  girl  a  bride. 

'T  was  here,  perchance,  the  royal  mother  sung 

At  hush  of  eve,  her  low,  sweet  lullaby, 
In  the  rich  cadence  of  her  native  tongue, 

Till  drooped  the  lash  above  the  clear  blue  eye  ; 
Fond  dreams  she  held  within  her  spirit,  then, 

How  to  her  boy  the  great  of  earth  should  bow, 
His  voice  should  sway  the  hearts  of  strong,  brave  men, 

The  regal  crown  should  press  the  fair,  broad  brow ! 

Here  the  bold  youth,  with  proud  heart  beating  high, 

Went  forth  to  win  the  laurel- wreath  of  fame, 
And  deeper  shone  the  light  within  his  eye, 

As  honor  came  and  glory  crowned  his  name. 
On  the  clear  air,  so  still  and  solemn  now, 

Kose  the  loud  peal,  the  full,  triumphant  strain, 
As  rosy  garlands  graced  the  conqueror's  brow, 

And  showered  the  glittering  pageant  of  his  train. 

Aye,  here  glad  hearts  and  bounding  pulses  thrill'd, 

And  beat  to  joyous,  busy,  changing  life, 
Ere  the  doomed  city's  million-tones  were  still'd, 

Ere  drooped  the  cloud  that  hushed  the  giddy  strife. 
Yet  they  are  gone,  the  glorious,  the  gay — 

There  comes  no  sound  from  out  the  deepening  gloom, 
To  the  low  moan,  the  mournful,  "  where  are  they  ?" 

No  answering  voice  is  echoed  from  the  tomb. 


LINES    TO    J  *  *  *  * 


Sleep  on,  ye  cities  of  the  voiceless  dead ! 

Mighty  ye  were,  but  ye  are  fallen  now — 
The  pilgrim  turns  away  with  reverent  tread, 

And  the  hushed  heart  beats  tremulous  and  slow ; 
A  holy  awe  sinks  deep  into  his  soul, 

He  marks  the  fate  of  earthly  pomp  and  pride, 
And  lifts  his  longings  to  the  shining  goal, 

Beyond  the  river's  still  and  waveless  tide, 
Where  the  fair  city  of  eternal  rest. 

Whose  golden  streets  are  by  the  angels  trod, 
Bises  in  glory,  radiant  and  blest, 

And  everlasting  as  the  years  of  God ! 


LINES  TO  J*«»» 

ANOTHER  New  Year's  Day  hath  come, 
And  still  thy  wayward  footsteps  roam, 
Far  from  thy  loved  New  England  home, 
And  stranger  breezes  fan  thy  brow, 
And  stranger  faces  meet  thee  now, 

Our  Brother  ! 


yet  we  feel  that  thou  art  near, 
When  'mid  the  gems  that  sparkle  here, 
Thy  well-known  characters  appear, 
And  by  the  answering  thoughts  that  start, 
We  know  thine  is  a  kindred  heart, 

Our  Brother  ! 


LINES    TO    J****. 


143 


And  has  the  starry  glance  for  thee, 
No  sunshine  and  no  witchery  ? 
The  lute-like  voice,  no  melody  ? 
And  moves  there  not  one  by  thy  side, 
Whom  thou  art  proud  to  call  thy  bride, 
Our  Brother  ? 

Say,  gifted  one,  hast  never  met 
One  face  that  thou  couldst  not  forget  ? 
Whose  memory  is  with  thee  yet  ? 
Has  Cupid  never  aimed  his  dart, 
And  sent  it  quivering  through  thy  heart, 
Our  Brother  ? 

Go,  then,  and  seek  some  gentle  one, 
With  spirit  kindred  to  thine  own, 
To  cheer  thee  with  her  kindly  tone, 
And  with  the  heart  and  clasping  hand, 
We  11  welcome  to  our  soul-linked  band, 

Another ! 


144  UNITED. 


UNITED. 

INSCRIBED  TO  THE  ESTHETIC  SOCIETY.* 

UNITED  !  't  is  a  holy  sound, 

A  sweet,  endearing  word, 
And  hearts  will  thrill  and  pulses  bound, 

Where'er  its  voice  is  heard  ; 
It  breathes  a  music  low  and  clear, 

A  soul-uniting  strain, 
That  links  our  hearts  together  here, 

As  by  a  silver  chain. 

United  !  't  is  the  magic  tie 

That  binds  our  sister-throng, 
The  love  that  lights  the  kindling  eye, 

And  tunes  the  soul  to  song, 
The  breathings  of  that  inborn  joy, 

That  stills  the  heart's  unrest, 
Spring  from  the  union  of  the  pure, 

The  beautiful  and  blest. 

United  !  though  the  loved  shall  go, 

From  out  our  sister  band, 
Though  kindred  hearts  shall  scatter'  d  dwell, 

Throughout  our  own  fair  land, 
Though  mountains,  in  their  grandeur,  rise, 

And  seas  between  us  roll, 


*A  literary  society  connected  with  Fort  Edward  Institute. 


UNITED. 


They  may  not  sunder  heart  from  heart, 
Nor  sever  soul  from  soul. 

United !  yea,  though  eyes  should  dim, 

And  cheeks  of  heauty  pale, 
Though  warm  young  hearts  should  throb  no  more, 

And  bounding  steps  should  fail, 
The  silken  chain  may  not  be  loosed, 

The  holy  union  riven, 
That  binds  us  with  the  "  gone  before," 

And  draws  us  nearer  Heaven. 

Oh,  when  the  raptured  soul  shall  thrill 

Unto  the  angels'  song, 
When  all  the  glad  redeemed  of  God, 

Shall  swell  the  blood- washed  throng, 
Saviour !  to  Thee  we  lift  our  hearts 

In  pure  and  fervent  prayer, 
That  we  who  are  united  here, 

May  be  united  there ! 


1  146 


SEA-FOAM. 


SEA-FOAM. 

WE  would  bring  to  thee,  we  would  bring  to  thee, 

No  thrilling  voice  from  the  deep,  dark  sea, 

No  murmur  low  from  the  sounding  deep, 

When  the  winds  are  hushed  and  the  blue  waves  sleep, 

No  treasures  bright  from  the  coral  caves, 

Where  the  changing  shade  of  the  sea-grass  waves, 

No  peerless  gems  from  the  mermaid's  home, 

Would  we  bring  to  thee  in  our  pure  sea-foam, 

'T  is  the  soft  spray  dashed  from  the  soul's  own  sea, 

We  would  bring  to  thee,  we  would  bring  to  thee ! 


|j    We  would  bring  to  thee,  we  would  bring  to  thee, 
No  swelling  psalm  from  the  sounding  sea, 
No  far-off  voice  of  the  ocean's  roar, 
No  jewels  washed  to  the  pebbled  shore ; 
There  are  glitt'ring  gems  more  bright  than  they 
In  the  silver  light  of  our  shining  spray, 
There  are  soft  strains  breathed  of  the  joys  that  sleep, 
In  the  mystic  light  of  the  spirit's  deep, 
There  are  songs  that  soothe,  there  are  tones  that  thrill, 
Like  the  whispered  sound  of  a  "  Peace,  be  still ;" 
For  the  sparkling  foam  we  would  bring  to  thee, 
Is  the  soft  spray  tost  from  the  soul's  own  sea. 


OUK  BAND. 

FATHER  of  all,  we  pray  thee  bless 

Our  gifted  sister-band, 
The  kindred  hearts  that  soon  will  meet 

To  clasp  the  parting  hand ; 
Oh,  water  with  the  dews  of  Heaven, 

Affection's  holy  flowers, 
And  lend  the  sunshine  of  thy  love 

To  gild  these  evening  hours. 

Is  there  one  sister  of  our  band, 

That  shuns  Thy  holy  ways, 
One  soul  that 's  tuneless,  and  one  lip 

That 's  voiceless  to  Thy  praise  j 
One  gifted  one  that  never  bows 

The  knee  in  holy  prayer, 
One  gentle  eye  that  never  sheds. 

The  penitential  tear : 

One  sister-heart  that  never  seeks 

The  meek,  the  spotless  One, 
That  glories  not  to  bear  the  cross 

Of  Him,  Thy  lowly  Son  ? 
Oh  then  direct  the  wanderer's  feet 

Unto  the  shining  way, 
Subdue  our  erring  sister's  heart 

And  teach  her  how  to  pray. 


148 


IT    IS    NOTHING    TO    ME/ 


Father  of  all,  we  pray  Thee  bless 

Our  cherished  sister-band, 
The  kindred  hearts  that  soon  will  meet 

To  clasp  the  parting  hand. 
Help  us  to  win  the  sacred  prize 

Gained  by  a  Saviour's  love, 
Arid  may  we  all,  unsevered,  meet 

An  angel-band  above. 


"IT  IS  NOTHING  TO  ME." 

"!T  is  nothing  to  me,"  says  the  Lady; 

Kesplendent  in  jewels  and  gold, 
As  she  turns  from  the  little  street-beggar, 

With  mien  proudly  scornful  and  cold ; 
Poor  child  !  there 's  a  tremulous  quiver 

In  thy  pleading  so  mournfully  sweet, 
Is  it  nothing  to  her  in  her  splendor, 

With  vassals  and  slaves  at  her  feet  ? 
With  the  step  of  a  queen,  slow  and  stately, 

She  treadeth  her  palace-like  halls, 
Mirrors  flash  from  the  floor  to  the  ceiling, 

Kich  paintings  adorn  the  proud  walls, 
Hoses  blush  from  the  crimson  and  purple 

Of  carpets  of  fanciful  dyes, 
And  the  wealth  of  her  beautiful  parlors, 

Would  dazzle  thine  innocent  eyes — 


IT    IS    NOTHING    TO    ME/ 


149 


One  mite  from  her  glittering  coffers, 
Sweet  child,  were  a  kingdom  to  thee, 

Yet  alas !  as  she  turns  from  thy  sorrow, 
She  says,  "  It  is  nothing  to  me." 

How  sad  seems  the  glad  summer  sunshine, 

How  mournful  the  blue  arching  sky, 
To  the  heart  of  the  little  street-heggar 

With  the  tear  in  her  eloquent  eye ! 
Away  from  the  mansions  of  splendor, 

The  homes  of  the  lofty  and  proud, 
From  the  street  to  the  gloom  of  the  hovel, 

She  threads  through  the  pitiless  crowd ; 
No  glance  from  the  soft  eye  of  woman, 

Compassionate,  tender  and  mild, 
No  reaching  of  white,  jewel'd  fingers, 

To  aid  thee,  thou  famishing  child ! 
Look  up,  little  one,  faint  and  weary, 

The  cloud  from  thy  spirit  shall  fall, 
There  is  One  who,  in  mercy,  regards  thee, 

The  Father  and  Saviour  of  all ! 
Thou  waif  upon  life's  troubled  ocean, 

Lift  upward  thy  gaze,  weak  and  dim, 
The  haughty  may  turn  from  thy  sorrow, 

We  know  it  is  something  to  Him  ! 


LIGHTS    AND    SHADES    OF    CHILD-LIFE. 


LIGHTS  AND  SHADES  OF  CHILD-LIFE. 

SAY  not  that  child-life  knows  no  blight, 

The  little  one  no  woe, 
That  music  breathes  and  sunshine  lives, 

Where'er  the  children  go ; 
Say  not  the  meek  and  sinless  brow 

Hath  ne'er  a  mournful  shade, 
That  little  hearts  are  little  heavens, 

For  little  angels  made — 
Say  not  the  waves  of  early  life 

Forever  smoothly  glide ; 
Though  childhood  is  a  blessed  thing, 

It  hath  a  shady  side. 

Little  children  !  earth's  evangels  ! 

In  our  hearts  we  've  called  them  angels, 

Beings  of  the  skies ; 
We  have  read  the  sweet  revealing 
Of  the  spirit's  hidden  feeling, 
In  its  gushing  gladness  stealing 

From  the  tell-tale  eyes ; 
We  have  seen  their  sunny  faces 
In  a  thousand  pleasant  places, 
When  a  cloud  of  glory  bound  them, 
And  a  halo  floated  'round  them, 


LIGHTS   AND    SHADES   OF    CHILD-LIFE. 

We  have  named  them  our  evangels, 
Blest  them  as  our  spirit-angels, 
Beings  of  the  skies ! 

Bounding  o'er  the  clover-meadows, 
Glancing  through  the  changing  shadows 

Of  the  waving  green ; 
Where  the  flowers  like  stars  are  gleaming, 
And  the  summer  light  is  streaming, 
Pleasant  as  a  poet's  dreaming, 

In  a  golden  sheen  ; 

We  have  seen  them  in  their  gladness, 
All  undimm'd  hy  cloud  or  sadness, 
Darting  through  the  shady  masses 
Of  the  long  and  tangled  grasses, 
In  the  sunshine  of  the  meadows, 
Glancing  through  the  changing  shadows 

Of  the  waving  green. 

With  a  sudden  gush  upspringing, 
We  have  heard  their  laughter  ringing, 

Clear  and  wild  and  free ; 
From  the  spirit's  fountain  welling, 
Of  the  inner  music  telling, 
Floating,  rippling,  rising,  swelling 

In  a  joyous  glee ; 
There  was  rapture  in  its  trilling, 
Wild  and  musical  and  thrilling, 
Arid  we  said  within  our  spirit, 
Child-life !   oh,  there 's  heaven  near  it, 


13= 


LI.GHTS   AND    SHADES    OF    CHILD-LIFE. 

Glory  is  forever  gleaming, 
Sunshine  is  forever  streaming, 
Where  the  children  be. 

Was  it  well  to  say  forever  ? 
Is  the  brow  of  childhood  never 

Darkened  by  a  shade  ? 
Though  the  light  around  it  gleameth, 
And  the  flood  that  soul-ward  streameth 
In  its  glow  a  glory  seemeth, 

May  it  never  fade  ? 
Is  the  little  life  a  heaven, 
For  a  living  gladness  given  ? 
Is  the  little  heart  a  prison, 
For  a  radiant  elysian, 
Where  the  joy-bells  chime  forever 
And  the  dancing  sunshine  never 

Blendeth  with  the  shade  ? 

Are  the  children  never  weary  ? 
Falleth  ne'er  a  shadow  dreary 

O'er  the  early  life  ? 
In  the  haunts  of  sin  and  sadness, 
In  the  dens  of  drunken  madness, 
Veiled  to  light  and  hushed  to  gladness, 

In  the  Babel-strife. 
Where  the  eye  of  crime  is  staring, 
And  the  torch  of  sin  is  glaring, 
Where  the  wing  of  Death  is  stooping, 
And  the  cloud  of  woe  is  drooping, 


LIGHTS   AND    SHADES   OF    CHILD-LIFE.       153 


Falleth  ne'er  a  shadow  dreary, 
O'er  the  children,  faint  and  weary 
Of  the  ways  of  life  ? 

Ah !  a  sudden  cloud  comes  o'er  us, 
And  a  vision  steals  before  us 

Of  a  little  child ; 
Not  a  merry,  elfin  creature, 
Soul-light  sparkling  from  each  feature, 
Tiny  angel,  spirit  teacher, 

Saint-like,  meek  and  mild ; 
Not  a  dainty,  little  fairy, 
With  a  motion  light  and  airy, 
Bounding,  springing,  gleaming,  glancing, 
Twinkling  feet  forever  dancing, 
Bird-like  voice  forever  singing, 
Gushing  laugh  forever  ringing, 

Einging  clear  and  wild  ! 

Ah  !  there  dawns  no  sunny  vision, 
Gleam  of  childhood's  blest  elysian, 

Beautiful  and  bright, 
Mournfully  a  spirit  hushing, 
Seals  the  fount  of  gladness  gushing, 
In  its  voiceless  sorrow  crushing 

Out  the  summer  light ; 
Here  is  child-life,  holy  child-life, 
Weary  with  an  olden  heart-strife 
From  the  great  world's  tumult  turning, 
Ever  with  a  restless  yearning, 


^KH 


t 


154     LIGHTS    AND    SHADES    OF    CHILD-LIFE. 

Little  heart  in  darkness  pining, 
Pining  for  the  blessed  shining, 
Of  the  pleasant  light ! 

By  the  tiny  hands  upraising, 
By  the  earnest,  wistful  gazing 

Upward  to  the  skies, 
By  the  hidden  fount's  unsealing, 
By  the  tears  unbidden  stealing, 
By  the  world  of  mournful  feeling 

In  the  lifted  eyes — 
Well  we  know  the  angel  dreamings, 
Floating  fancies,  golden  gleamings, 
Other  little  hearts  have  cherished, 
From  this  little  heart  have  perished, 
Well  we  know  the  sinless  spirit, 
Seeth  not  the  angels  near  it. 

Bending  from  the  skies. 

Child  of  sorrow,  child  of  sadness, 
Banished  from  the  summer  gladness, 

Children  love  so  well  \ 
Not  for  thee  the  silver  singing 
From  the  country's  bosom  springing, 
Inner  light  and  rapture  bringing, 

Not  for  thee  the  swell 
Of  the  bird-songs  in  the  meadows, 
Warbling  through  the  leafy  shadows, 
Where  the  pleasant  lands  are  spreading, 
And  the  rural  feet  are  treading, 


LIGHTS    AND    SHADES    OF    CHILD-LIFE. 


Where  the  purling  streams  are  flowing, 
And  the  berries  red  are  growing, 
Children  love  so  well ! 

Child-life,  with  its  sunshine  shaded, 
Music  fled,  and  glory  faded, 

'T  is  a  mournful  thing ! 
Little  hearts  forever  cheerless, 
Never  beating  free  and  fearless, 
Eyes  that  never  sparkle  tearless, 

Laughs  that  never  ring ; 
Little  ones  with  olden  sorrows, 
Dark  to-days  and  dark  to-morrows, 
Happy  voices  never  sounding, 
Merry  footsteps  never  bounding 
Faces  wan  with  sorrow  shaded, 
All  the  light  of  child-life  faded, 

'T  is  a  mournful  thing ! 

Take  the  weary  children,  Father, 
When  the  clouds  around  them  gather, 

Let  the  children  rest ! 
There  is  sunshine  for  the  saddest, 
There  is  rapture  for  the  gladdest, 

Cradled  on  thy  breast, 
With  the  arm  of  God  around  them, 
Love  and  light  and  joy  hath  crowned  them, 
Oh,  the  children  !  earth's  evangels  ! 
Sinless  teachers,  wingless  angels, 


ffi  156 


BABY    HELEN. 


Since  the  spotless  One  caress'd  them, 
Since  the  gentle  Jesus  blest  them, 
Yes,  we  call  them  blest ! 


BABY   HELEN, 

WRITTEN    AT    THE    AGE    OF     FOURTEEN. 

BABY  HELEN,  softly  rest. 
Cradled  on  thy  mother's  breast. 
Close  thine  eyes  and  sweetly  sleep, 
While  the  angels  vigils  keep. 

Silken  lashes  drooping  low, 
Kesting  on  thy  warm  cheek's  glow, 
Pouting  rose-bud  lips  apart, 
What  a  dainty  thing  thou  art ! 

Dimpled  hands  together  prest, 
Folded  meekly  on  thy  breast, 
Oh,  so  softly  falls  thy  breath, 
We  could  almost  dream  it — Death  1 

Baby,  tell  us  of  thy  dreams, 
Are  they  faint  and  shadowy  gleams  ? 
Visions  of  a  land  more  fair  ? 
Seest  thou  the  angels  there  ? 


LIFE. 


157 


Fondly  on  thy  cherub  brow, 
Lo  !  thy  mother  gazes  now, 
Lifts  to  God  the  fervent  prayer, 
He  may  for  her  darling  care. 

Little  dreamer,  free  from  sin, 
Shut  from  out  the  great  world's  din, 
When  the  death-dew  chills  thy  brow, 
Mayst  thou  be  as  pure  as  now ! 

Angels  guard  thy  sinless  years, 
Jesus  charm  away  thy  fears, 
Take  thee  gently  by  the  hand, 
Lead  thee  to  the  Morning  land ! 


LIFE. 

LIFE  is  not  all  sunshine,  nor  all  shade, 

But  hath  the  touch  of  each !     Man  was  not  made 

To  sit  in  idleness  in  sylvan  bowers, 

And  dream  away  the  glad,  enchanted  hours ; 

Nor  need  he  walk  in  darkness  while  the  light 

From  the  clear  heaven  is  shining  full  and  bright — 

But  let  him  work,  and  lift  his  heart  and  pray, 

And  God's  own  smile  shall  glorify  his  way. 

And  the  deep  darkness  of  a  rayless  night 

Shall  flee  before  the  Day-star's  living  light ! 


158 


E  P I G  E  A  M. 


LOVE. 

LOVE  is  a  star — a  holy  star, 

That  burns  with  quenchless  light, 

That  shines  when  clouds  the  blackest  are, 
And  gilds  the  darkest  night. 

Love  is  a  flower — a  gentle  flower 

Of  high  and  holy  birth, 
That  gives  its  sweetest  fragrance  forth 

When  rudely  crushed  to  earth. 


EPIGKAM. 

WHAT  means  that  stern  and  awful  step  ? 

That  firm,  majestic  tread  ? 
Methinks  on  battle  plains  't  would  thrill 

Each  warrior-heart  with  dread ; 
The  deep  foundations  rock  and  move, 

It  shakes  the  lofty  hall- 
Nearer  and  clearer,  yet  more  near, 

The  stately  stoppings  fall — 
A  merry  laugh  unfolds  the  ruse, 
'T  is  fairy  feet  in  high-heeled  shoes! 


FRIENDSHIP. 


FRIENDSHIP. 

NOT  in  the  radiant  glance  alone, 
The  beaming  smile  and  silvery  tone, 
Not  in  the  light  of  a  beautiful  face, 
The  bounding  step  and  the  form  of  grace, 
Oh,  not  in  these  doth  the  secret  dwell, 
The  high,  the  holy  and  wondrous  spell, 
That  binds  the  heart  to  a  faithful  friend, 
When  kindred  spirits  together  blend ! 

The  soul  that  gives  to  the  meekest,  grace, 
A  pleasant  look  to  the  homely  face, 
A  holy  light  to  the  soft,  dark  eye, 
7T  is  this  that  strengthens  the  sacred  tie, 
7T  is  this  that  speaks  in  the  gushing  voice, 
'T  is  this  that  maketh  the  heart  rejoice, 
When  kindred  spirits  together  blend, 
And  we  learn  to  trust  in  a  faithful  friend. 


160 


SONNET. 


SONNET. 

SPRING     FLOWERS. 

On,  things  most  holy !  gracing  the  young  spring, 
Gleaming  out  softly  from  the  dewy  grass, 
Springing  where  waves  of  light  and  shadow  pass, 

Dreams  of  the  summer's  blessedness  ye  bring ! 

Ye  breathe  of  woodlands  where  the  blue-birds  sing, 
Of  the  green  meadows'  rich  and  verdurous  mass, 
Of  silver  trout  within  the  clear  stream's  glass, 

And  the  wild  haunts  where  sylvan  echoes  ring ; 

Crushed  by  rude  feet,  your  sweetest  odors  rise : 
Thus  would  we  meekly  bow  and  kiss  the  rod, 

Kead,  with  pure  lips,  the  language  of  the  skies, 
The  lessons  printed  on  the  velvet  sod. 

Learn  of  the  flowers  the  sweets  of  sacrifice, 
And  give  our  hearts'  best  incense  unto  God ! 


TO    MY    FATHER. 


TO  MY  FATHER 


THE  music  of  the  memory-bells 

Comes  tinkling  soft  and  low, 
And  rings  unto  my  heart,  to-night, 

The  pleasant  "Long  Ago;" 
The  golden  years  are  with  me  now, 

My  laugh  swells  wild  and  free, 
I  'm  sitting,  prouder  than  a  queen, 

Upon  my  father's  knee. 

Still  gleam  the  by-gones,  one  by  one, 

Like  stars  in  quiet  skies, 
The  silent  dew  of  thankfulness 

Is  gathering  in  mine  eyes ; 
The  thought  of  all  the  parent-love, 

So  full,  so  deep,  so  strong, 
Subdues  and  melts  my  grateful  heart, 

And  moves  my  soul  to  song. 

My  father,  thou  art  still  the  same, 

As  in  the  olden  time, 
When  I  was  but  a  tiny  girl, 

And  thou  wert  in  thy  prime ; 
Thou  hast  been  gentle  with  thy  child, 

Through  all  her  wayward  years, 
Thou  hast  been  faithful  to  her  faults, 

And  tender  to  her  tears. 


11 


162 


TO    MY    FATHER. 


Nobly,  thy  strong,  brave  heart  hath  borne, 

The  pain  and  toil  of  life, 
Undaunted  by  the  cold  world's  scorn, 

Serene  in  all  the  strife ; 
Thine  is  the  high  and  earnest  soul, 

The  courage  calm  and  bold, 
The  love  that  would  lay  down  the  life 

To  guard  thy  little  fold. 

Oh  nought  unto  my  heart  shall  be, 

The  trumpet- tones  of  fame, 
May  I  but  hear  my  father's  lips, 

Breathe  blessings  on  my  name ; 
Sweeter  than  all  the  words  of  praise, 

That  bid  my  pulse  beat  high, 
The  fond,  proud  light  that  beams  on  me, 

From  out  his  clear,  blue  eye. 

Father,  I  bow  my  girlish  head 

Unto  thy  dear  caress, 
And  my  full  heart  goes  out  to  thee, 

In  gushing  thankfulness. 
May  He,  whose  love  o'ershadows  us, 

Guide  thee  as  tenderly, 
And  deal  with  thee  as  kindly  here, 

As  thou  hast  dealt  with  me. 


THE    LAW    OF    MAINE. 


THE  LAW  OF   MAINE. 

Lo !  the  day  at  length  is  dawning, 

Hail !  0  hail !  the  welcome  light ! 
Long  we  've  waited  for  the  morning, 

Long  hath  been  the  rayless  night ; 
But  the  cloud  is  now  withdrawing 

From  the  land  we  love  so  well, 
And  upon  the  light- wing'd  breezes, 

Songs  of  triumph  soon  shall  swell ! 
Hark !  the  Temperance  trump  is  sounding, 

Loudly  swells  the  welcome  strain, 
Brothers  !  sisters  !  lend  your  voices — 

Hail  the  noble  law  of  Maine ! 

Not  till  Temperance  waves  her  banner 

O'er  our  loved  America, 
Will  we  boast  our  nation's  glory, 

Will  we  lift  the  loud  huzza ; 
No !  for  hearts  have  struggled  bravely, 

With  a  stern  and  mighty  foe, 
And  a  stronger  arm  than  Briton's, 

Binds  our  country  even  now. 
Hark !  the  Temperance  trump  is  sounding, 

Loudly  swells  the  welcome  strain, 
Brothers  !  sisters  !  lend  your  voices, 

Hail  the  noble  law  of  Maine ! 


THE    LAW    OF    MAINE. 


c 


From  the  hills  of  fair  New  England, 

To  the  broad  Pacific's  shore, 
We  will  sing  the  song  of  triumph, 

We  will  tell  the  story  o'er, 
How  the  Rum  King  long  had  fettered, 

With  a  firm  and  iron  hand, 
Freedom's  proud  and  boasted  country, 

Freedom's  fair  and  happy  land ; 
Hark  !  the  Temperance  trump  is  sounding, 

Loudly  swells  the  welcome  strain, 
Brothers  !  sisters  !  lend  your  voices, 

Hail  the  noble  law  of  Maine  ! 

Weeping  ones  shall  weep  no  longer, 

Cheerless  homes  shall  yet  rejoice, 
Hearts  where  desolation  sitteth, 

Yet  shall  raise  a  grateful  voice 
To  the  Lord  of  tender  mercies, 

Who  despiseth  not  the  cry, 
Lifted  by  earth's  wailing  millions, 

To  the  holy  throne  on  high. 
Hark  !  the  Temperance  trump  is  sounding, 

Loudly  swells  the  stirring  strain, 
Brothers  !  sisters  !  lend  your  voices, 

Hail  the  noble  law  of  Maine ! 


ONE    GLASS. 


165 


ONE   GLASS. 

"  'T  is  but  one  glass  !"  Beware !  Beware ! 

Look  not  upon  the  rich  red  wine, 
The  demon-chains  of  rum  have  bound 

Full  many  a  heart  as  brave  as  thine  ; 
The  brow  where  genius  sat  enthroned, 

Hath  paled  beneath  the  withering  blight, 
And  souls  once  hopeful  as  thine  own, 

Have  known  a  long  and  starless  night. 

Beware !  thy  fancied  strength  is  vain, 

Oh,  cherish  not  the  wily  foe ! 
For  health  't  will  give  thee  torturing  pain, 

For  peace  and  virtue  voiceless  woe ! 
Dash  from  thy  lips  the  fatal  draught, 

A  serpent's  folds  lie  coiled  beneath, 
'T  will  wound  thee  with  ten  thousand  stings 

And  goad  thee  on  to  endless  death. 

G-o  to  the  home  where  love  and  hope 

Once  held  their  calm  and  peaceful  sway, 
Where  past  the  bright  unconscious  hours, 

Glad  as  a  cloudless  summer's  day — 
Hark !  fearful  sounds  steal  on  the  breeze, 

Deep,  bitter  curses  rend  the  air, 
By  all  the  horrid  strife  within, 

We  know  the  drunkard  dwelleth  there ! 


ONE    GLASS. 


Go  view  in  yonder  reeling  form, 

The  man  to  whom  the  great  have  bowed, 
Whose  words  of  burning  eloquence, 

Once  held  entranced  the  wondering  crowd ; 
Mark  well  the  wild  and  frenzied  glance, 

The  hollow  cheek,  the  glaring  eye — 
Think'st  thou  with  one  convulsive  throe, 

He  laid  his  noble  manhood  by  ? 

The  lofty  seal  of  thought  once  stamped 

Its  lines  upon  that  massive  brow, 
Young  lips  were  vocal  with  his  praise, 

Lips  that  would  proudly  scorn  him  now ; 
And  did  the  mighty  statesman  fall, 

In  one  dread  moment  or  one  day  ? 
Nay,  step  by  step,  and  pace  by  pace, 

He  came  the  dark  and  downward  way. 

Long  years  ago  he  stood  with  those, 

Who  bow  at  Fashion's  heartless  shrine, 
And  many  a  fair,  white,  jewelled  hand, 

Held  to  his  lips  the  sparkling  wine ; 
Dark,  radiant  orbs  on  him  were  bent, 

The  young,  the  beautiful  were  there, 
He  heeded  not  the  solemn  voice, 

That  spake  the  warning  word,  Beware ! 

High  hopes  and  brilliant  dreams  were  his, 
Joy  lit  the  boundless  future  up — 

Destruction,  death,  eternal  night, 
He  read  not  in  the  glittering  cup  ; 

3= 


THE    DRUNKARD'S    WIFE. 


167 


He  saw  not  then  the  fearful  cloud, 
That  drew,  in  awful  silence  near, 

He  saw  not  in  the  ruby  wine 
A  foe  to  all  his  heart  held  dear. 

"  'T  is  but  one  glass  !"  with  these  fell  words 

He  hushed  the  silent  monitor. 
Behold  him !  oh,  how  fallen  now, 

The  great  and  gifted  orator  ! 
"  'T  is  but  one  glass,"  the  tempter  pleads, 

Oh,  touch  it  not,  or  all  is  o'er, 
Again  that  siren  voice  will  cry, 

"  But  one  glass  more,  but  one  glass  more  1" 


THE  DKUNKAKD'S  WIFE. 

WHERE  are  the  dreams  of  other  days, 

The  visions  glad  and  gay  ? 
The  glowing  hopes  that  softly  shone 

Like  stars  upon  my  way  ? 
Where  is  the  sunny  seal  of  joy 

That  stamped  my  girlish  brow  ? 
The  rainbow-dreams  of  early  years, 

Alas !  where  are  they  now  ? 

Gone  like  the  morning  dew, 
Gone  like  the  summer-flowers, 


THE  DRUNKARD'S  WIFE. 


Leaving  no  cherished  joy  behind 
To  gild  the  starless  hours ! 

Gone  like  the  sunset  glow 

O'er  flashing  waters  cast, 
Gone  like  the  cloudlet's  gorgeous  tints^ 

Too  bright' — too  bright  to  last ! 

Where  are  the  smiles  that  woke  for  me, 

Upon  my  bridal  day  ? 
When  love-lit  eyes  were  beaming  bright, 

And  every  heart  was  gay — 
Where  rests  to-night  the  tender  glance 

That  proudly  beamed  on  me  ? 
The  loved  of  years- — the  chosen  one — • 

Oh,  tell  me !  where  is  he  ? 

Go  where  the  tempter's  smiles 

In  brimming  goblets  shine, 
Go  where  the  deathless  spirit  bows 

Before  the  wine-god's  shrine. 

Go  where  the  frenzied  shout 

Steals  on  the  midnight  air, 
Where  sounds  of  madderi'd  mirth  are  heard- 

Alas  !  he  lingers  there  ! 

Where  is  the  angel  child  that  came 

To  cheer  my  hours  of  gloom  ? 
A  ihing  so  bright,  I  fondly  hoped 

'T  would  bring  the  wanderer  home  ! 


THE  DKUNKAKD'S  WIFE. 


Methought  that  to  her  pleading  voice 
Her  father's  heart  would  bow, 

My  only  one — my  beautiful ! 
Alas !  where  is  she  now  ? 

Hushed  is  the  bounding  step, 
Dimmed  are  the  eyes  of  blue, 

The  rose  upon  the  velvet  cheek 
Paled  to  an  ashy  hue ! 

Down  in  the  churchyard  now, 
She  sleeps  the  dreamless  sleep, 

The  angels  o'er  her  little  grave 
Their  lonely  vigils  keep. 

And  thus  the  dreams  of  other  days 

Have  faded,  one  by  one, 
'Mid  the  wild  wreck  of  perished  hopes, 

Oh,  must  I  still  live  on  ? 
No  golden  gleam,  no  sunny  ray, 

To  gild  the  path  of  life, 
How  wearily  the  hours  pass  on, 

To  me,  the  drunkard's  wife  ! 

Death,  thou  art  welcome  now! 

Kind  Father  take  me  home, 
An  angel  hand  is  beck'ning  me, 

I  come !  my  child,  I  come  ! 


1 


TEMPERANCE    STANZAS. 


TEMPERANCE   STANZAS. 

ALL  hail,  to  the  dawn  of  the  beautiful  day ! 
The  clouds  and  the  darkness  are  passing  away, 
The  mists  and  the  shadows  are  all  floating  by, 
The  Temperance  star  rises  high  in  the  sky, 
It  bursts  like  a  sun  from  the  night's  sable  pall, 
Its  splendor  shall  circle  the  pathway  of  all, 
Rejoice,  noble  sons  of  the  Temperance  band  ! 
The  night  is  far  spent  and  the  day  is  at  hand  ! 

Ye  have  armed  for  the  struggle,  the  cause  of  the  right, 
|  Your  courage  is  strong  and  your  armor  is  bright, 
At  the  wail  of  the  stricken,  ye  come  one  and  all, 
Ye  come  at  the  sound  of  humanity's  call, 
Ye  have  risen  to  conquer,  the  work  must  be  done, 
The  foe  must  be  vanquished,  the  victory  won, 
A  glorious  light  shall  illumine  our  land, 
The  night  is  far  spent  and  the  day  is  at  hand ! 

On  !  on,  to  the  battle  !  the  tyrant  must  yield, 

His  death-dealing  ranks  must  be  forced  from  the  field, 

The  peal  of  the  victor,  the  clarion-shout, 

On  the  clear  air  of  heaven  shall  ring  proudly  out, 

The  forests  majestic,  the  mountain  and  wave 

Shall  echo  the  song  of  the  free  and  the  brave, 

Rejoice  noble  sons  of  the  Temperance  band  ! 

The  night  is  far  spent  and  the  day  is  at  hand ! 


TEMPERANCE    STANZAS. 


171 


Long,  long  o'er  our  land,  the  fell  spoiler  hath  trod, 
And  spread  desolation  and  anguish  abroad, 
Man  formed  in  the.  image  and  likeness  Divine, 
Hath  bowed  to  his  sceptre  and  knelt  at  his  shrine, 
The  hour  of  his  glory  and  triumph  hath  past, 
The  merciless  foe  is  retreating  at  last, 
Kejoice,  noble  sons  of  the  Temperance  band ! 
The  night  is  far  spent  and  the  day  is  at  hand. 

The  enemy's  standard  in  triumph  hath  waved, 
The  storm  and  the  tempest  our  army  hath  braved, 
When  the  heavens  were  veiled  in  the  terrible  pall, 
And  the  blackness  of  midnight  was  over  us  all, 
There  was  strength  in  each  purpose,  resolve  on  each 

brow, 

Ye  faltered  not  then,  and  ye  falter  not  now ! 
Eejoice,  noble  sons  of  the  Temperance  band  ! 
The  night  is  far  spent  and  the  day  is  at  hand ! 

Kejoice,  ye  that  mourn !  all  ye  Weary  rejoice ! 
To  the  Father  of  mercies  lift  up  a  glad  voice, 
From  the  desolate  dwelling  an  altar  shall  rise, 
The  song  of  thanksgiving  ascend  to  the  skies, 
E'en  now  the  night  fades,  and  the  cloud  is  withdrawn, 
Praise  God  for  the  light  of  the  glorious  dawn ! 
Peace  !  peace  to  the  homes  of  our  beautiful  land, 
The  night  is  far  spefit  and  the  day  is  at  hand ! 


WE   MUST    FIGHT   THE    BATTLE    OVER. 


WE  MUST  FIGHT  THE   BATTLE  OVEK. 


WE  must  fight  the  battle  over, 

Else !  ye  tried  and  gallant  few, 
Pledged  for  aye  to  truth  and  freedom, 

Gird  your  armor  on  anew ! 
Sound  the  trump  !  unfurl  the  banner ! 

Proudly  let  the  standard  wave ! 
"Born  to  conquer,"  is  our  motto — 

Motto  of  the  true  and  brave. 

Brothers  !  freemen  !  would  ye  triumph, 

Would  ye  burst  the  galling  chain, 
Would  ye  crush  the  foe  forever, 

Would  ye  have  the  law  of  Maine  ? 
Ye  must  fight  the  battle  over, 

Ye  must  rise  to  fall  no  more, 
Armed  and  girded  for  the  struggle, 

Firmer,  stronger  than  before ! 

By  the  spreading  desolation, 

By  the  dark  and  fearful  blight, 
Shrouding  our  beloved  nation, 

In  one  long  arid  starless  night — 
By  the  tears,  the  groans,  the  wailings, 

In  the  demon's  deadly  train, 
We  have  pledged  ourselves  to  conquer, 

Sworn  to  have  the  law  of  Maine  ! 


THE    TEMPERANCE    JUBILEE.  173 


Though  the  foe  again  hath  triumphed, 

Shall  we  settle  tamely  down  ? 
Nay  !  by  all  that's  pure  and  holy, 

We  will  wear  the  victor's  crown  ! 
We  will  form  our  brave  battalions, 

We  will  rally  —  not  in  vain  — 
We  will  fight  the  battle  over, 

We  will  have  the  law  of  Maine  ! 


THE  TEMPERANCE  JUBILEE 

Composed  for,  and  sung,   at  the  Semi-Centennial  Anniversary, 
April  13th,  1858. 

WITH  swelling  songs  of  grateful  praise 

We  greet  this  festal  morn, 
And  hail  the  day  when  Temperance, 

The  holy  thing,  was  born ; 
The  bright  earth  wore  a  gladder  smile, 

The  skies  a  purer  glow, 
When  came  the  blessing  to  our  world 

Just  fifty  years  ago. 

CHORUS : 
Come  let  our  choral  strains  ring  out, 

Swell  high  the  gushing  glee, 
All  hail !  with  stirring  song,  and  shout 

The  Temperance  Jubilee  I 


THE    TEMPERANCE    JUBILEE. 


Well  may  our  hearts  beat  high  to-day, 

Well  may  our  songs  arise, 
Our  voices,  in  one  hymn  of  praise, 

Peal  to  the  vaulted  skies ; 
A  glad  shout  woke  the  distant  spheres 

And  angels  smiled  we  know, 
When  Temperance  dawned  upon  our  world 

Just  fifty  years  ago. 

CHORUS: 
Come  let  our  choral  strains  ring  out, 

Swell  high  the  gushing  glee, 
All  hail !  with  stirring  song,  and  shout 

The  Temperance  Jubilee ! 

Hail !  to  the  joyous  festal  day ! 

Hail,  to  the  noble  band, 
Whose  watching  eyes  first  saw  the  light 

That  shines  o'er  all  the  land  ! 
God  bless  this  day,  the  mighty  few, 

The  brave  men  of  Moreau 
Who  framed  the  consecrated  PLEDGE 

Just  fifty  years  ago  ! 

CHORUS: 
Come  let  our  choral  strains  ring  out, 

Swell  high  the  gushing  glee, 
All  hail !  with  stirring  song,  and  shout 

The  Temperance  Jubilee ! 


"HALF  A  HUNDRED  YEARS  AGO.' 


"HALF  A  HUNDKED  YEAKS  AGO." 

A    POEM, 

Written  for  the  Semi-Centennial  Celebration  of  the   "  Temperance 
Society  of  Moreau  and  Northumberland,"  April  13,  1858. 

WHEN  the  silver  trump  of  Freedom 

Through  Columbia's  spirit  thrills, 
And  the  deep  roar  of  her  cannon 

Thunders  o'er  the  sunrise  hills, 
Bells  ring  in  the  purple  morning, 

Banners  woo  the  whispering  breeze, 
Clear  and  sweet  the  sound  of  laughter 

Eipples  o'er  the  summer  seas. 
To  the  list'ning  skies  ascending, 

Swells  the  birth-song  of  the  free, 
And  a  million  voices  blending, 

Hail  the  nation's  Jubilee  ! 

Not  to  strains  of  martial  music, 

Not  with  shouts  of  stirring  cheer, 
Chime  of  bells  and  peal  of  bugles, 

Have  we  met  exulting  here ! 
Not  to  sing  how  Freedom's  Angel 

'Mid  the  storm  of  battle  came, 
Waving  his  proud  wing  triumphant, 

O'er  the  burning  billows'  flame  ; 
But  to  tell  the  grateful  story, 

While  our  hearts  within  us  glow, 


176   "HALF  A  HUNDRED  YEARS  AGO." 


How  there  came  a  kindred  glory, 
Half  a  hundred  years  ago. 

'T  was  the  time  when  o'er  the  nation 

Hung  a  black  and  fearful  pall, 
And  the  wing  of  desolation 

Brooded  darkly  over  all, 
When  the  plaintive  wail  of  anguish 

Drowned  the  ringing  voice  of  mirth, 
And  the  glowing  embers  smouldered 

On  the  lonely  cottage  hearth, 
When  the  high-born  spirit  worshipped 

At  the  Tempter's  fatal  shrine, 
And  the  fire  of  Genius  faded, 

Quenched  within  the  sparkling  wine, 
And  the  eye  grew  dim  and  sunken, 

And  the  firm,  proud  step  grew  slow, 
Ere  there  came  a  saving  Angel, 

Half  a  hundred  years  ago. 

There  were  tears  and  bitter  wailings, 

There  were  groans  that  pierced  the  skies, 
And  through  all  the  land  the  weary 

Lifted  up  their  swimming  eyes. 
Childhood's  heart,  the  pure  and  tender, 

Shuddered  'neath  a  father's  frown, 
And  the  patient  soul  of  woman 

To  the  storm  bent  moaning  down. 
Mighty  men,  the  great  and  gifted, 

Groaned  beneath  the  fiery  chain, 


"HALF  A  HUNDRED  YEARS  AGO. 

'Neath  the  Bum-King's  flaming  fetter, 
Burning  into  soul  and  brain, 

Then  the  vestal  fires  of  Freedom, 
Faded  from  our  virgin  strand, 

Deeper  grew  the  sunless  shadow — 
It  was  midnight  in  the  land ! 

Oh,  't  was  beautiful,  't  was  holy, 

When  the  faint  and  feeble  light 
Twinkled  dimly  through  the  darkness 

Of  the  wild  and  starless  night. 
And  the  eyes  all  weary  watching 

Through  the  long  and  lonely  years, 
Saw  the  mellow  morning  twilight 

Through  a  mist  of  happy  tears  ; 
Like  the  birth-star  of  the  Saviour, 

Very  still  and  soft  it  came, 
Lighting  up  earth's  mournful  places 

With  its  pure,  celestial  flame, 
Shining  o'er  the  cheerless  hearth-stone, 

Giving  back  the  olden  glow, 
To  the  pleasant  cottage  fire-light, 

Half  a  hundred  years  ago. 

Where  the  shapes  of  hell  were  wreathing 
Kound  the  lost,  despairing  soul, 

In  the  Babel  dens  of  madness, 
Even  there  the  glory  stole. 

And  there  came  a  dewy  softness, 


12 


178 


HALF    A    HUNDRED    YEARS    AGO. 


O'er  the  wild  and  glaring  eye, 
And  the  burning  brow  grew  peaceful, 

With  a  purpose  calm  and  high ; 
Then  the  daring  hand  uplifted, 

Sheathed  the  reeking  blade  of  Crime, 
And  the  saved  went  out  to  conquer, 

Girded  with  a  strength  sublime. 

In  the  drooping  soul  of  woman, 

'Neath  its  weight  of  anguish  bowed, 
Hope  unfurled  her  glowing  pinion, 

Like  the  rainbow  in  the  cloud, 
And  she  watched  the  sweet  revealing 

Breathless,  with  her  lips  apart, 
Till  the  morning-star  of  gladness 

Dawned  within  her  sinking  heart. 
And  the  deep  praise  of  her  spirit, 

Into  grateful  song  did  flow, 
For  this  Angel  of  her  household, 

Half  a  hundred  years  ago. 

Weary  children  saw  the  sunshine 

Breaking  through  the  leaden  skies, 
And  the  laughing  light  stole  sparkling 

To  the  mild,  beseeching  eyes ; 
O'er  the  tiny  forms  that  shivered, 

In  the  blighting,  chilling  cold, 
Warm  and  beautiful  it  quivered, 

Turning  all  the  gloom  to  gold, 
Sweeter  than  the  music  swelling 


"HALF  A  HUNDRED  YEARS  AGO."       ] 

From  the  princely  palace  dome. 
Bang  the  voices  of  the  children, 
In  the  ransomed  drunkard's  home. 

Oh,  the  Pledge !  what  blessings  crowned  it ! 

There  was  joy  where'er  it  fell, 
Guiding  to  the  gushing  fountain, 

Where  the  crystal  waters  well-r— 
Turning  midnight  into  morning, 

Hushing  down  the  raging  storm, 
Giving  health,  and  grace,  and  vigor, 

To  the  bowed  and  reeling  form, 
Mingling  music  with  the  murmur, 

Of  the  streams  that  cool  did  flow, 
For  the  healing  of  the  nations, 

Half  a  hundred  years  ago. 

Hail !  thou  glad,  primeval  glory, 

Beacon  of  the  drunkard's  soul, 
Watch-light  on  the  lurid  ocean 

Where  the  waves  of  ruin  roll ! 
Hail !  thou  star  of  Teinp'rance,  gleaming 

Through  the  clouded  spirit's  haze, 
And  the  feet  of  Error  guiding 

Into  Wisdom's  pleasant  ways. 
Oh,  what  hope  for  mourning  households 

Twinkled  in  thine  early  glow, 
Blushing  to  a  living  splendor, 

Half  a  hundred  years  ago  ! 


180 


HALF    A    HUNDRED    YEARS    AGO. 


What,  though  gathering  gloom  and  darkness 

From  our  skies  the  sun  would  blot, 
Yet  the  firm  faith  stands  unshaken, 

And  the  brave  heart  falters  not. 
By  the  glowing  heavens  o'er  us, 

By  the  Day-spring  shining  still, 
We  shall  swell  the  victor's  chorus, 

Till  the  answering  stars  shall  thrill. 
Conquest  waits  us  in  the  future, 

There 's  a  prouder  crown  to  win, 
We  will  force  the  gates  of  Triumph, 

We  will  enter  boldly  in. 

Lo  !  the  skies  are  bright  with  promise, 

Clear  the  day  shall  break  at  last, 
In  the  beautiful  hereafter 

We  shall  glory  in  the  past. 
Hope  shall  change  to  full  fruition, 

Peace  shall  bless  our  favored  strand, 
When  the  sun  of  Prohibition 

Floods  with  cloudless  light  the  land. 
We  who  thank  the  great  All-Father, 

For  the  sunshine  and  the  rain, 
Then,  from  our  full  hearts,  shall  praise  Him, 

For  the  righteous  Law  of  Maine  ! 

Yea !  though  clouds  have  gathered  o'er  us, 
Sometimes  shutting  out  the  ray 

Radiant  with  the  holy  promise 
Of  the  full  resplendent  day, 


"HALF  A  HUNDRED  YEARS  AGO. 

Well  we  know  the  hope  of  millions 

Hose  to  shine  triumphant  then, 
Kindled  by  the  living  purpose 

In  the  hearts  of  mighty  men ! 
Sisters  !  from  our  blended  spirits 

Let  the  tide  of  blessing  pour, 
In  one  grateful  shower  descending 

On  the  gallant  band  of  yore. 
Blessed  be  the  primal  fathers, 

Blessed  be  our  own  Moreau, 
Where  the  light  began  to  glimmer 

Half  a  hundred  years  ago  ! 

We  will  here  renew  the  promise ! 

Pass  around  the  PLEDGE  again ! 
While  we  lift  our  thankful  voices 

In  one  clear,  exulting  strain ! 
Let  the  bells  of  gladness  ringing 

Sweetly  peal  to  distant  lands. 
Break !  ye  mountains,  into  singing, 

And  ye  green  hills  clap  your  hands ! 
Shout  aloud  the  thrilling  story, 

Till  the  far-off  nations  know, 
How  there  dawned  a  day  of  glory, 

Half  a  hundred  years  ago  ! 


182 


INDEPENDENCE. 


INDEPENDENCE, 

Written  for  the  Celebration  of  the  National  Anniversary  at  Fort 
Edward,  July  3d,  1858. 

WITH  music's  strains  and  cannon's  roar, 

And  glowing  stars  and  stripes  unfurled, 
The  children  of  the  fairest  shore, 

The  proudest  land  in  all  the  world, 
We  gather  in  thy  lofty  name, 

Beneath  thy  skies,  Oh  Liberty ! 
And  echoing  song  and  shout  proclaim 

It  is  the  birthday  of  the  Free ! 

The  everlasting  hills  rejoice 

And  spread  their  green  arms  to  the  sky, 
The  nation  lifts  her  mighty  voice, 

A  million  hearts  are  throbbing  high. 
The  pulse  of  youth  beats  full  and  fast, 

And  hoary  age  grows  young  again, 
While  quivering  with  the  storied  past, 

Ascends  the  glorious,  natal  strain. 

Aye,  many  a  grave  and  reverend  sire, 
Whose  locks  are  silvered  o'er  with  gray, 

Feels  in  his  heart  the  olden  fire, 

And  grows  a  hale,  young  man  to-day ; 

And  many  a  fair-haired,  blooming  boy, 
His  full  soul  "sparkling  in  his  eye," 


INDEPENDENCE. 


Joins  in  the  universal  joy, 

And  hurls  his  tiny  hat  on  higL 

A  wave  of  music  floods  the  land, 

The  summer  air  grows  sweet  with  song, 
While  here,  on  freedom's  soil,  we  stand, 

And  glad  huzzas  ring  loud  and  long ; 
Where  rose  of  old  the  trumpet's  sound, 

And  dark  the  cloud  of  battle  lay, 
On  fair  Fort  Edward's  storied  ground, 

We  hail  this  proud,  triumphant  day. 

'T  is  meet  for  us  to  gather  here, 

Where  once  bright  bannered  armies  stood, 
And  brave  hearts  throbbed  with  lofty  cheers, 

And  freely  shed  their  sacred  blood. 
O'er  towering  hill  and  forest  glen, 

Hung  redly  down  a  cloud  of  flame, 
And  marshalled  hosts  of  gallant  men, 

Went  forth  in  Freedom's  holy  name. 

The  fearful  conflict's  deepening  roar, 

The  lurid  war-cloud's  fiery  gleam, 
Have  faded  from  the  pleasant  shore, 

WThere  the  blue  Hudson  winds  its  stream ; 
Bathed  in  the  sun-light's  golden  sheen, 

O'ershadowed  by  the  bending  skies, 
Imbosomed  in  her  hills  of  green, 

The  rural  village  peaceful  lies. 


184 


INDEPENDENCE. 


Tall  churches  lift  their  slender  spires 

And  point  the  weary  pilgrim  home, 
And  where  the  wild  war  wreathed  its  fires, 

Proud  Science  rears  her  stately  dome ; 
There  many  a  bold,  high-hearted  youth, 

With  treasures  rich  his  mind  shall  freight, 
Learn  how  to  wield  the  sword  of  truth, 

And  guide  the  noble  ship  of  state. 

Where,  in  their  might,  the  millions  woke 

To  the  loud  trumpet's  clarion-peal, 
And  the  fierce  storm  of  battle  broke, 

And  rose  the  sound  of  clashing  steel. 
Melodious  on  the  clear  air  swells 

The  happy  music  of  the  free, 
The  silver  chime  of  ringing  bells, 

And  childhood's  voice  of  gushing  glee. 

Mid  the  glad  peal  of  loud  huzzas, 

And  songs  that  reach  the  skies  to-day, 
A  hush  comes  o'er  our  hearts,  we  pause — 

And  mourn  the  fate  of  Jane  McCrea. 
The  soft  wind  rustles  on  the  hill, 

And  whispers  in  the  sylvan  dell, 
The  waters  flash  and  murmur  still, 

Where  she,  the  Scottish  maiden  fell. 

Through  all  the  long,  warm  summer  hours, 
The  blue  birds  in  the  branches  sing, 

And  little  children  gather  flowers, 

Beside  that  clear  and  sparkling  spring. 


\  ? 


INDEPENDENCE. 


Aye,  hushed  hath  grown  each  warlike  sound, 
And  all  the  scenes  of  strife  have  fled, 

And  yet  we  call  this  holy  ground, 
On  which  with  reverent  feet  we  tread. 

Awed  by  the  consecrated  past, 

Through  the  dim  years  we  look  away 
We  hear  the  signal  bugle's  blast, 

And  live  those  olden  years  to-day. 
A  holy  flame  glows  in  each  soul, 

As  when  of  yore  went  o'er  the  sea, 
Majestic  as  an  anthem's  roll, 

The  DECLARATION  of  the  FREE  ! 

Oh,  Liberty  !  thou  blessing  bought 

With  dying  patriot's  blood  and  groans, 
Thou  glorious  work  of  triumph  wrought 

In  orphans'  tears  and  widows'  moans ; 
Unholy  hands  profane  the  prize, 

The  victor's  crown  so  dearly  won, 
A  shadow  veils  thy  radiant  skies, 

A  spot  is  on  thy  sacred  sun ! 

Yea,  in  this  pleasant  land  of  ours, 

Where  warmly  shines  the  summer  light, 
Where  bloom  the  gorgeous,  tropic  flowers, 

And  glitter  birds  of  plumage  bright, 
There  on  the  soil  our  fathers  trod, 

The  slave  groans  'neath  the  fearful  ban, 
There,  man  the  "noblest  work  of  God," 

Hath  bought  and  sold  his  brother  man ! 


TO    MY    MOTHER. 


Spirit  of  Freedom  !  shalt  thou  droop 

Forever  thus,  a  fettered  thing  ? 
And  shall  our  own  proud  eagle  stoop 

With  dimming  eye  and  shattered  wing  ? 
Nay  !  by  our  stars  and  stripes  unfurled, 

This  favored  land  of  ours  shall  be, 
A  beacon-light  to  guide  the  world, 

The  glorious  home  where  all  are  FREE  ! 


TO  MY  MOTHEE. 

MOTHER  !  the  dearest  word  of  all 

That  human  lips  have  learned  to  say, 
Whose  tones  of  silver  sweetness  fall, 

Like  music,  on  my  heart  to-day } 
How  beautiful  the  changeless  love, 

The  pure,  the  patient,  steady  flame, 
The  warm  light  kindled  from  above, 

That  glorifies  that  sacred  name ! 

Mother,  it  was  thy  guiding  hand 

That  led  me,  oh,  so  tenderly ! 
Up  the  green  hills  of  that  fair  land, 

Where  childhood's  pleasant  pastures  be ; 
When  clouds  came  o'er  the  purple  skies, 

And  shadows  o'er  my  spirit  stole, 
The  pitying  light  of  thy  soft  eyes, 

Gave  back  the  sunshine  to  my  soul. 


TO    MY    MOTHEK. 


187 


Cradled  within  thy  clasping  arms, 

And  folded  to  thy  faithful  breast, 
It  was  thy  gentle  voice  whose  charms 

Lulled  all  my  troubled  heart's  unrest ; 
In  the  dark  hour  when  sickness  came, 

And  wildly  throbbed  my  burning  brain, 
Thy  cool  hand  quenched  the  fever's  flame, 

And  soothed  away  the  weary  pain. 

Full  many  a  thread  of  silver  now, 

Is  gleaming  in  thy  glossy  hair, 
Ah  !  time  hath  touched  thy  placid  brow 

And  left  faint  lines  of  sadness  there. 
Yet  by  the  tears  that  sometimes  start, 

When  thou  thy  wayward  child  doth  bless, 
Mother,  I  know  thy  warm,  true  heart 

Throbs  with  its  olden  tenderness. 

The  fount  still  gushes  full  and  free, 

The  old  smile  lights  thy  patient  face, 
And  the  dear  arms  that  cradled  me 

Still  fold  me  in  their  fond  embrace ; 
And  now,  as  in  the  early  years, 

I  turn  me,  like  a  weary  dove, 
From  all  life's  bitterness,  and  tears, 

Unto  thy  safe  and  sheltering  love. 

They  say  a  tie,  more  holy  still, 

Will  sometime  lure  me  from  thy  side, 

When  all  the  daughter's  soul  shall  thrill 
With  the  full  rapture  of  the  bride; 


THE    HOME    OF    WASHINGTON. 


But  though  our  flock  should  scattered  be, 
Though  from  the  fold  iny  feet  may  roam, 

My  deepest  heart  will  cling  to  thee, 
The  guardian  angel  of  our  home. 

Mother,  once  more,  thy  sacred  name, 

With  hushed  and  reverent  lips  I  speak, 
A  sweet  joy  trembles  through  my  frame, 

My  spirit  bows,  and  words  grow  weak ; 
But  thou  canst  read  my  glowing  face, 

Thou  knowest  all  my  heart  so  well, 
And  there  thy  watching  eyes  shall  trace 

The  love  these  lips  may  never  tell. 


THE   HOME  OF   WASHINGTON. 

DEDICATED     TO    THE    LADIES'    MOUNT    VERNON    ASSOCIATION. 

PLACE  to  our  Country's  heart  more  dear 

Than  all  beneath  the  sun ! 
What  fond  affections  cluster  round 

The  Home  of  Washington  ! 
The  trees  he  loved  are  sacred  trees, 

The  paths  he  used  to  tread 
Are  voiceful,  with  a  thousand  tones 

That  whisper  of  the  dead. 

Oh  !  who  shall  claim  the  cherished  spot — 
The  chamber  where  he  died  ? 


THE    HOME    OF    WASHINGTON. 


189 


The  consecrated  place  where  sleeps 

A  nation's  love  and  pride  ? 
What  grateful  hand  shall  train  the  vines 

That  grace  the  homestead-bowers  ? 
And  whose  shall  be  the  precious  right 

To  wreathe  his  tomb  with  flowers  ? 

'T  is  Woman's  clear  and  thrilling  voice, 

Makes  blessed  answer  now, 
A  loving  light  is  in  her  eye 

Kesolve  is  on  her  brow : 
"  The  peace  that  crowns  our  cottage  homes 

His  fearless  courage  won ; 
We,  in  our  tenderness,  will  guard 

The  tomb  of  Washington." 

Yea,  let  the  glorious  work  be  ours, 

And  ours  the  holy  trust — 
To  hallowed  keep  the  hero's  home, 

And  guard  his  sacred  dust. 
Arise,  ye  daughters  of  our  land, 

The  proudest  'neath  the  sun, 
Arise  !  and  join  us,  all  who  love 

The  name  of  WASHINGTON  ! 

LURA  A.  BOIES. 

Moreau,  Oct.  18,  1858. 


YC   IM74 


M191809 


ir 

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